WHEN  THE  WEST 
WAS  YOUNG 


John  Slaughter  was  gathering-  a  great  herd 


WHEN  THE  WEST 
WAS  YOUNG 


BY 

FREDERICK  R.  BECHDOLT 

H 


NEW  YORK 
THE  CENTURY  CO. 


,  Copyright,  1922, , by 


PRINTED   IN   TJ.    8.    A. 


To  My  FATHEB 
DR.  A.  F.  BECHDOLT 


M13686 


ACKNO  WLE  DGMENT 

The  writer  is  indebted  for  the  material  in  this  book 
to  a  goodly  number  of  the  old-timers,  from  whose  lips 
came  much  of  which  is  written  in  the  following  pages, 
and  to  numerous  printed  works  which  he  consulted, 
sometimes  to  authenticate  data  and  sometimes  to  get 
additional  facts. 

Among  the  former  to  whom  he  wishes  to  make  ac 
knowledgment  are:  Former  Sheriff  John  Ralphs,  San 
Bernardino,  California;  Captain  Harry  C.  Wheeler, 
Douglas,  Arizona;  A.  M.  Franklin,  Tucson,  Arizona; 
Colonel  William  Breckenbridge,  Tucson,  Arizona;  Dr. 
D.  T.  MacDougal,  Carnegie  Institution;  William  Lut- 
ley,  Tombstone,  Arizona;  Judge  Duncan,  Tombstone, 
Arizona;  A.  H.  Gardner,  Tombstone,  Arizona;  C.  M. 
Cummings,  Tombstone,  Arizona;  Andy  Smith,  Tucson, 
Arizona;  Guy  C.  Welch,  Tombstone,  Arizona;  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  John  Slaughter,  Douglas,  Arizona;  James  East, 
Douglas,  Arizona;  Horace  Stillman,  Douglas,  Arizona; 
D.  F.  McCarthy,  Lipscomb,  Texas;  and  the  Arizona 
Pioneers'  Association. 

Among  the  latter  are  old  files  of  the  "Tombstone 
Epitaph"  and  other  Arizona  newspapers;  Manley's 
''Death  Valley  in  '49";  Upton's  " Pioneers  of  Eldor 
ado";  Ridge 's  "Life  of  Joaquin  Murieta ' ' ;  Dukes " '  Fa 
mous  Criminal  Cases";  Farish's  "History  of  Arizona"; 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

McClintock's  "History  of  Arizona' ';  Hittel's  "History 
of  California'';  Bancroft's  Works;  Visscher's  "Pony 
Express";  G.  D.  Bradley 's  "Story  of  the  Pony  Ex 
press";  "Overland  Stage  to  California,"  by  F.  A.  Root 
and  W.  E.  Connely;  Inman's  "Santa  Fe  Trail";  Hum- 
phreyville's  "Twenty  Years  Among  Our  Hostile  In 
dians  ' ' ;  Richardson 's  ' '  Beyond  the  Mississippi ' ' ; 
Bourke  's  "  On  the  Border  With  Crook  " ;  J.  Ross  Brown 's 
"Adventures  in  the  Apache  Country";  Charles  Sir- 
ingo's  "History  of  Billy  the  Kid";  Bard's  "Life  of 
Billy  Dixon,  Scout  and  Plainsman";  Brown's  "His 
tory  of  Texas." 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

How  DEATH  VALLEY  WAS  NAMED  .......  3 

JOAQUIN  MURIETA 25 

TOMBSTONE 54 

TOMBSTONE'S  WILD  OATS 80 

THE  SHOW-DOWN 105 

THE  PASSING  OF  JOHN  RINGO 132 

JOHN  SLAUGHTER'S  WAY 160 

COCHISE    .....*... 190 

ONE  AGAINST  MANY 218 

THE  OVERLAND  MAIL 248 

BOOT-HILL                           .     . 277 


WHEN  THE  WEST 
WAS  YOUNG 


WHEN  THE  WEST 
WAS  YOUNG  i  : 


HOW  DEATH  VALLEY  WAS  NAMED 

THERE  were  three  of  us  sitting  on  a  pile  of  lum 
ber  in  a  sun-baked  little  mining  town  down  near 
the  Arizona  border.  One  of  my  companions  was  the 
sheriff  of  the  county  and  the  other  was  an  old  man  with 
snowy  beard  and  sky-blue  eyes  whom  every  one  called 
"Mac."  To  look  at  him  was  to  behold  a  vision  of  the 
past. 

As  we  were  whiling  away  the  time  with  idle  talk 
something  was  said  which  aroused  the  spirit  of  reminis 
cence  within  this  survivor  of  the  unfenced  West.  He 
closed  his  jack-knife  with  a  snap,  threw  away  a  pine 
stick  from  which  he  had  been  peeling  shavings,  and 
turning  his  sky-blue  eyes  on  the  sheriff,  "I  remember 
'  he  began. 

After  which  he  told  of  cheating  Death  in  quicksand 
fords,  of  day-long  battles  with  naked  Apaches  in  the 
malapi,  of  fighting  off  bandits  from  the  stage  while  the 
driver  kept  the  horses  on  a  run  up  Dragoon  Pass,  of 
grim  old  ranchmen  stalking  cattle-thieves  by  night,  of 
frontier  sheriffs  and  desperadoes  and  a  wilderness  that 
was  more  savage  than  the  wild  riders  who  sought  sanc 
tuary  within  its  arid  solitudes.  He  did  not  talk  for 
more  than  forty-five  minutes  at  the  most  and  the  words 

3 


4  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

came  slowly  from  his  lips,  but  when  he  had  done  my 
head  was  spinning  from  more  visions  of  bold  men  and 
large  deeds  than  it  had  held  since  the  Christmas  night 
when  I  reeled  off  to  bed  after  bolting  a  full  half  of  the 
"Boy's  Froissart." 

And  after  that  old  man  had  sauntered  away  in  the 
hot-white  Arizona  sunshine  I  thought  of  other  grizzled 
chroniclers  to  whom  I  had  listened  in  other  parts  of  the 
West.  Some  of  their  tales  came  back  to  me,  straight 
forward  simple  stories  of  the  days  before  the  farmers, 
barbed-wire  fences,  and  branch  railroad  lines;  and  I 
marveled  at  the  richness  of  a  lore  whose  plain  unvar 
nished  narratives  of  fact  stand  out  with  values  exceed 
ing  those  of  most  adventure  fiction,  more  vivid  and  color 
ful  than  the  anecdotes  of  the  Middle  Ages  which  the 
French  chronicler  set  down  for  all  the  world  to  read. 

Every  State  between  the  Mississippi  and  the  Pacific 
has  its  own  stories  of  deeds  that  took  place  during  an 
era  when  even  the  lawbreakers  attained  a  certain  harsh 
nobility,  and  when  plain  men  must  prove  themselves 
heroic  if  they  would  survive.  The  names  of  many 
heroes  in  these  tales  have  become  like  household  words 
all  over  the  United  States,  and  what  they  did  in  many 
places  is  printed  on  the  maps  of  school  geographies ;  but 
there  is  a  vanished  legion  of  those  old-timers  who  are 
remembered  only  in  the  immediate  neighborhoods  where 
they  lived  swiftly  and  died  hard.  Emigrant  and  pros 
pector,  pioneer  and  Indian  chief,  cow-boy  and  cattle- 
thief,  sheriff,  stage-robber,  and  pony  express  rider — 
only  the  old  men  can  tell  their  stories  now. 

All  of  those  men,  whether  they  be  famous  or  forgotten, 
owned  a  common  virtue  which  still  survives  among  the 


HOW  DEATH  VALLEY  WAS  NAMED    5 

people  who  came  after  them.  That  pioneer  spirit  which 
makes  the  average  American  eager  to  try  what  no  one 
else  has  done  is  the  common  motive  in  the  tales  of  their 
exploits.  It  stands  out  strongly  in  this  story  which  tells 
how  Death  Valley  got  its  name. 

One  evening  early  in  November,  1849,  a  party  of  emi 
grants  was  encamped  near  Mountain  Meadows  down  in 
southern  Utah  close  to  the  Nevada  line.  It  was  a  glori 
ous  night  of  the  intermountain  autumn ;  the  stars  burned 
large  and  yellow  overhead.  In  their  faint  radiance  the 
white  tops  of  more  than  one  hundred  prairie-schooners 
gleamed  at  the  base  of  the  hillside  which  rose  into  the 
west.  Here  and  there  one  of  the  canvas  covers  glowed 
incandescent  from  a  candlelight  within,  where  some 
mother  was  tucking  her  children  into  their  beds.  Out 
on  the  long  slope  the  feeding  oxen  moved  like  shadows 
through  the  sage-brush,  and  beyond  them  coyotes 
shrieked  incessantly. 

Fairly  in  the  middle  of  the  camp  a  leaping  flame 
shone  on  the  faces  of  a  crowd  of  men.  For  the  world- 
old  question  of  a  short  cut  had  arisen  to  divide  opin 
ions  in  this  company  and  they  had  gathered  around 
a  large  fire  to  try  to  settle  the  matter. 

They  were  on  their  way  to  California  and  the  placer 
fields.  In  Salt  Lake  City  they  had  learned  that  the 
season  was  too  far  advanced  to  permit  their  crossing 
the  Sierras  by  the  northern  passes  and  they  had  organ 
ized  into  what  they  called  the  Sand  Walking  Company, 
with  John  Hunt,  a  bearded  Mormon  elder,  as  their 
captain  and  their  guide.  He  was  to  conduct  them  by  a 
trail,  unmarked  as  yet  by  any  wagon  track,  over  which 
some  of  his  people  had  traveled  to  the  old  Spanish 


6  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

grant  recently  acquired  by  their  church  at  San  Ber 
nardino.  This  route  to  the  gold-fields  followed  the  Col 
orado  watershed  southward  taking  advantage  of  such 
few  streams  as  flowed  into  the  basin,  to  turn  north 
ward  again  at  the  pueblo  of  Los  Angeles.  Thus  it 
described  a  great  loop  nearly  parallel  with  what  is 
now  Nevada's  southern  boundary. 

But  before  the  Sand  Walking  Company  left  Salt 
Lake  City  a  man  named  Williams  drew  a  map  for  one 
of  its  number  showing  what  he  claimed  was  a  shorter 
pathway  to  the  Land  of  Gold.  This  Williams  Short 
Route,  as  it  came  to  be  called  during  many  a  heated 
discussion,  struck  off  straight  into  the  west  bearing  to 
the  San  Bernardino  road  the  relation  of  a  cord  to  its 
arc;  until  it  reached  a  snow-clad  peak.  This  peak, 
according  to  the  map,  was  visible  for  many  miles,  a 
clear  landmark  during  nearly  half  the  journey.  Reach 
ing  it  the  trail  turned  sharply  north  to  cross  the  range 
by  an  easy  pass  and  traverse  a  long  rich  valley  to  the 
gold-fields.  There  were  many  legends  of  good  feed 
and  water-holes  on  the  drawing.  The  promise  of  time 
saved  was  an  important  consideration,  for  all  of  the 
company  were  getting  impatient  to  reach  the  placer 
diggings  lest  they  be  too  late. 

The  trail  forked  near  this  place  where  they  were  en 
camped  to-night.  John  Hunt  had  halted  the  party  here 
for  two  days  while  scouts  crossed  the  long  divide  to 
the  west  and  looked  over  the  country  beyond  the 
summit  to  see  if  wagons  could  travel  that  way.  And 
now  his  pathfinders  were  giving  their  reports.  They 
stood  in  the  open  space  by  the  fire,  three  lean  and  sun 
burned  men  dressed  in  semi-Indian  costume  with  their 


HOW  DEATH  VALLEY  WAS  NAMED     7 

powder-horns  slung  from  their  shoulders  and  long 
sheath-knives  in  their  beaded  belts.  One  after  the  other 
they  addressed  the  crowd  and  each  gave  it  as  his  opinion 
that  the  short  cut  was  impractical.  The  country  was 
too  rough,  they  said. 

The  murmur  of  many  voices  arose  among  the  au 
dience.  Most  of  the  men  there  were  nearing  middle  age 
and  doubt  showed  on  the  bearded  faces  of  the  great 
majority;  doubt  and  disappointment,  for  they  were 
eager  to  see  their  journey's  end  and  that  Williams  map 
had  aroused  high  hopes.  Here  and  there  a  woman 
stood  beside  her  husband,  listening  anxiously  to  what 
he  said,  watching  his  eyes  as  he  harkened  to  the  talk 
of  those  about. 

But  there  was  one  portion  of  the  circle  which  stood 
out  in  marked  contrast  to  the  rest.  The  men  here  were 
for  the  most  part  in  their  early  twenties;  their  faces 
were  serene,  their  eyes  untroubled  by  any  doubt;  and 
there  were  no  women  with  them.  While  the  others 
stood  weighed  down  by  uncertainty,  they  lounged  full 
length  on  the  ground  basking  in  the  heat  of  the  flames, 
or  sat  in  groups  on  near-by  wagon-tongues,  laughing 
and  whispering  jests  among  themselves.  Several  of 
them  were  wearing  bits  of  Indian  finery,  after  the  man 
ner  of  the  guides,  and  this  sprinkling  of  buckskin  shirts, 
fringed  leggings,  and  beaded  moccasins,  together  with 
an  occasional  crop  of  thick  hair  that  reached  to  a  pair 
of  broad  young  shoulders,  gave  a  dash  of  savage  picture- 
esqueness  to  their  section  of  the  audience.  They  were  a 
company  of  bachelors  from  Illinois  and  called  them 
selves  the  Jayhawkers.  Their  end  of  the  camp  had  been 
the  scene  of  wrestling  matches  and  frolic  every  night 


8  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

since  the  train  had  left  Salt  Lake  City;  and,  as  one 
might  expect,  it  was  one  of  their  number  who  had  got 
ten  that  map  of  the  Williams  Short  Route.  They  were 
unanimous  in  advocating  it. 

Now  Ed  Doty,  their  captain,  stepped  forward  into 
the  open  space  by  the  fire.  Fixing  his  bold  young  eyes 
on  John  Hunt,  whom  he  addressed  rather  than  the 
audience,  "We  haven't  found  the  country  yet/'  he 
said,  "that  could  stop  us  and  we  're  not  afraid  of  that 
over  there."  He  pointed  out  into  the  darkness  where 
the  summit  of  the  divide  showed  black  against  the 
western  sky.  "We  're  going  to  try  the  Williams  Short 
Route." 

Hunt  nodded.  "All  right,"  he  answered  quietly, 
"and  if  the  rest  try  it,  I  'm  going  through  with  you  if 
I  have  to  pass  through  hell  to  reach  the  other  end  of 
the  trail.  But  if  one  wagon  sticks  to  the  San  Ber 
nardino  road  I  '11  stay  with  that  wagon,  for  I  passed 
my  word  to  take  you  that  way." 

It  was  sometime  near  midnight  when  the  crowd  left 
the  fire,  but  the  sun  was  barely  up  the  next  morning  be 
fore  the  wagons  were  lined  out  along  the  side  hill.  Far 
ahead  of  them  where  the  trail  forked,  John  Hunt  stood 
waiting  alone. 

The  white-topped  prairie-schooners  came  on  slowly 
toward  him  from  the  northward  through  the  sage; 
the  heads  of  the  long-horned  oxen  swinging  low  from 
side  to  side  before  their  heavy  wooden  yokes.  The  first 
span  reached  the  solitary  figure  of  the  captain  and 
went  straight  on  south ;  the  wagon  rumbled  by  and  Hunt 
knew  by  its  passing  that  he  must  keep  to  the  San  Ber 
nardino  trail. 


HOW  DEATH  VALLEY  WAS  NAMED    9 

But  the  second  driver  halted  his  team  and  leaned 
out  from  his  seat  to  take  the  hand  which  Hunt  ex 
tended  him.  "We  '11  try  the  short  route,"  he  said. 

"Good-by,"  the  captain  bade  him;  "good  luck." 
The  man  called  to  his  lead  span;  the  great  yokes 
creaked  and  the  front  wheels  whined  against  the  wagon- 
box  as  the  animals  swung  the  prairie-schooner  to  the 
west. 

And  now  wagon  after  wagon  halted  briefly  while  its 
occupants  exchanged  a  brief  farewell  with  the  bearded 
man  beside  the  road;  then  the  outfit  struck  out  straight 
westward  up  the  long  steep  slope;  until,  when  Hunt 
turned  to  rejoin  his  remnant  of  a  following,  three  quar 
ters  of  its  members  had  forsaken  the  Sand  Walking  Com 
pany. 

The  prairie-schooners  of  the  seceders  made  a  slender 
white  line  in  the  wilderness  of  sage  which  reached  on 
before  them,  up  and  up.  Beyond  the  crest  which  rose 
gray-brown  against  the  cloudless  Indian  summer  sky, 
the  desert  waited  silent  as  Death  itself. 

They  traveled  for  three  days  up  that  long  steep  slope 
and  when  they  reached  the  summit  to  look  down  upon 
the  other  side  they  discovered  that  the  Williams  map 
was  worthless  as  a  guide.  Here,  where  it  promised 
easy  going,  a  steep-walled  canon  led  down  from  the 
north  blocking  their  road.  Beyond,  a  wilderness  of 
sandstone  pinnacles  and  naked  cliffs  dropped  away  and 
away  to  depths  invisible. 

Then  most  of  the  drivers  turned  back  their  oxen  to 
follow  Captain  Hunt  and  overtake  him  on  the  San 
Bernardino  trail  by  which  he  led  his  company  in  safety 
to  Los  Angeles.  But  twenty-seven  wagons  remained 


10  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

parked  among  the  twisted  junipers,  their  occupants 
biding  the  return  of  scouts  whom  they  had  sent  ahead 
to  seek  a  pass.  Although  the  map  had  proved  of  no 
value  when  it  came  to  showing  a  road,  they  still  believed 
in  the  snow-clad  peak  which  it  had  promised,  some 
where  before  them  in  the  hidden  west.  They  were 
determined  to  find  that  landmark  and  strike  out  for  it. 

The  scouts  came  back  on  the  fourth  day  and  reported 
a  pass  far  to  the  northward  around  the  canon  head. 
But  before  the  prairie-schooners  lined  out  on  the  ridge 
to  make  the  long  detour,  the  unmarried  owners  of  outfits 
banded  together  in  a  company,  advising  those  with  fam 
ilies  to  return  to  Captain  Hunt.  They  did  not  care,  they 
said,  to  be  responsible  for  the  lives  of  women  and  chil 
dren  in  this  unmapped  wilderness.  The  advice  was  not 
taken  and  the  train  set  forth  in  two  sections,  twenty 
wagons  belonging  to  the  Jayhawkers  and  their  bach 
elor  companions  and  seven  owned  by  men  who  traveled 
with  their  wives  and  little  ones. 

The  scouts  had  picked  an  easy  route  through  rolling 
hills  where  bunch-grass  stood  in  thick  clusters  among 
the  tall  gray  sage;  the  oxen  cropped  the  rich  feed  as 
they  went  along.  Clear  streams  ran  noisily  in  most 
of  the  ravines.  The  train  passed  the  canon  head,  and 
one  day,  after  considerable  aimless  wandering,  it 
turned  westward  to  cross  a  succession  of  wide  table 
lands  where  feed  was  good  and  water  still  plentiful. 

The  Indian  summer  season  was  at  its  height  now, 
clear  balmy  days  and  cloudless  nights.  Their  progress 
was  steady  for  some  time,  uninterrupted  by  ill  luck  of 
any  kind.  When  they  halted  for  the  midday  meal  it 
was  like  a  great  picnic  in  the  soft  warm  sunshine,  and 


HOW  DEATH  VALLEY  WAS  NAMED    11 

when  evening  came  the  Jayhawkers  rollicked  around 
their  fires  or  gathered  where  one  of  their  number  had 
tuned  up  his  fiddle.  William  Isham  was  his  name, 
a  great  bearded  fellow  wrho  hailed  originally  from 
Rochester,  New  York;  he  would  sit  by  the  hour  on  the 
tongue  of  his  wagon  playing  ' '  Oh  Susannah ' '  and  other 
lively  airs,  or  strike  up  a  jig  tune  while  Negro  Joe,  who 
had  fled  from  slavery  in  Mississippi,  did  a  double  shuffle 
in  the  firelight.  The  children  slipped  away  from  their 
mothers  to  get  peeps  at  the  fun  from  the  edges  of  the 
crowd  or  play  hide  and  seek  in  the  shadows  of  the  sage 
brush;  there  were  ten  of  these  youngsters  in  all. 

Many  of  these  evenings  would  find  a  number  of  the 
older  men  clustered  around  the  wagon  of  Asahel  Ben 
nett,  an  Iowa  pioneer  whose  outfit  included  a  young 
hunter  by  the  name  of  William  Manley.  For  Manley 
went  ahead  nearly  every  day  to  spy  out  the  country 
and  these  men  were  eager  for  tidings  of  the  snow-clad 
peak  which  lay  before  them  hidden  in  the  west. 

Now  gradually  as  they  went  onward  the  country 
began  to  change;  the  sage-brush  became  more  stunted, 
the  grass  tufts  sparser;  the  streams  ran  smaller  and 
smaller.  Until  there  came  a  day  when  they  traveled 
from  dawn  until  long  after  sunset  before  they  encoun 
tered  any  water;  and  this  lay  lukewarm  in  hollows  of 
the  sandstone,  accumulations  from  rains  of  long  ago. 
The  earth  was  hard  and  dry  and  there  were  stretches 
where  there  was  no  earth  at  all,  only  a  rubble  of  sharp 
rock  fragments  radiating  heat-waves  under  the  glaring 
sun. 

There  was  no  rollicking  about  the  camp-fires  any 
more.  When  evening  came  the  men  were  weary  from 


12  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

"hurrying  their  wagons  over  rugged  ground  or  climbing 
lofty  buttes  to  look  ahead  for  signs  of  water.  Isham 
the  fiddler  left  Ms  violin  in  its  case;  he  never  took  it 
from  that  case  -again.  The  oxen  had  grown  gaunt  from 
lack  of  feed  and  drink;  they  wandered  about  the 
night  camps  nibbling  disdainfully  at  what  growth  there 
was,  low  bitter  sapless  weeds. 

The  change  in  the  country  had  come  so  imperceptibly 
that  they  did  not  realize  the  presence  of  the  desert 
until  they  were  confronted  by  an  appalling  revelation 
one  afternoon. 

All  that  day  and  all  the  day  before  the  drivers  had 
been  goading  the  failing  oxen  while  they  peered  with 
reddened  eyes  out  on  the  glaring  plain,  from  which 
arose  a  series  of  isolated  cone-shaped  buttes.  For  the 
water  in  the  barrels  was  running  very  low  and  they 
were  always  seeking  some  sign  of  stream  or  pool. 

Then  one  of  them  uttered  a  loud  cry  and  at  that 
shout  the  others  saw,  two  miles  or  so  off  to  the  right 
where  the  plain  opened  out  between  the  cone-shaped 
hills,  a  lake  whose  waters  were  bluer  than  any  they  had 
ever  looked  upon.  A  little  breeze  was  stirring  its  sur 
face,  and  on  the  further  bank  there  were  some  trees 
whose  branches  were  moving  as  if  perhaps  the  wind 
were  stronger  over  there. 

Now  every  driver  lashed  his  oxen  to  a  lumbering 
run,  and  the  women  lifted  the  canvas  tops  of  the  prairie- 
schooners  to  show  their  children  the  pretty  lake.  The 
whole  train  turned  away  from  its  course  and  went 
rumbling  across  the  plain,  one  mile,  then  a  second;  and 
another  followed  before  they  found  themselves  in  the 
midst  of  a  glaring  expanse  of  snow-white  alkali,  baked 


HOW  DEATH  VALLEY  WAS  NAMED    13 

by  the  sun  to  rock-like  hardness.  The  vision  of  blue 
waters  had  vanished  with  the  suddenness  of  a  dream 
which  ceases  on  the  instant  of  awakening. 

The  mothers  lowered  the  canvas  wagon-covers  and 
soothed  their  crying  children,  and  the  drivers  turned 
the  oxen  back  toward  the  trail  which  they  had  for 
saken  for  the  lure  of  the  mirage.  There  was  no  word 
of  grief  among  the  men,  no  outcry  of  despair ;  but  the 
shoulders  of  some  were  sagging  when  they  made  their 
dry  camp  that  night,  and  there  was  a  new  hardness 
in  the  eyes  of  all  of  them.  For  they  had  looked  upon 
the  desert  and  they  knew  it  for  what  it  was. 

As  they  were  sitting  about  their  little  fires  a  man 
came  staggering  among  them  out  of  the  darkness.  It 
was  Manley,  the  young  hunter  of  the  Bennett  outfit, 
who  had  been  away  for  two  days  on  one  of  his  recon- 
noitering  expeditions.  They  gathered  around  him  in  si 
lence  but  he  read  the  question  in  their  eyes  and  shook 
his  head. 

"No  water/'  he  answered,  "nor  sign  of  it,  but  I  have 
seen  a  snow  mountain  straight  west  of  us. ' ' 

He  told  them  how  he  had  lain  out  on  the  summit  of 
a  high  butte  the  night  before  until  dawn  came  revealing 
a  dead  world.  Dark  ragged  mountains  of  volcanic 
rock  lay  to  the  north,  and  to  the  south  a  tangle  of  naked 
ridges  whose  sides  were  discolored  as  though  by  fire. 
Between  these  scorched  ranges  a  plain  stretched  for  a 
good  one  hundred  miles  into  the  west,  as  level  as  a  floo? 
and  gleaming  white.  Beyond  that  plain  a  low  chain 
of  mountains  rose,  as  black  as  ink,  and  behind  this 
gloomy  range  he  saw  a  snow-clad  peak  that  glistened  in 
the  morning  sun. 


14  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

They  talked  the  situation  over;  all  of  them  were  con 
vinced  that  Manley  had  found  the  peak  described  by 
the  Williams  map,  and  now  they  argued  for  different 
routes.  Of  the  four  points  of  the  compass  there  was 
only  one  which  lacked  an  advocate.  For,  while  some 
urged  a  northward  circuit  and  others  believed  there 
would  be  greater  safety  to  the  south  and  many  were 
determined  to  push  straight  on  west  across  the  gleam 
ing  plain  of  alkali,  there  was  not  one  word  said  of  turn 
ing  back  into  the  east. 

Survivors  tell  how  some  of  the  women  wept  under 
the  covers  of  the  prairie-schooners  that  night,  but  none 
of  those  mothers  raised  her  voice  in  favor  of  retreat. 
They  were  pioneers,  these  people,  and  it  seemed  as  if 
they  did  not  know  how  to  turn  back. 

None  can  ever  set  the  fulness  of  their  story  down 
in  words ;  for  the  Amargossa  Desert  has  a  wicked  beauty 
which  is  beyond  the  telling,  and  one  must  journey  out 
beyond  the  black  escarpments  of  the  Funeral  Moun 
tains  and  fight  for  his  life  in  the  silent  reaches  of  that 
broken  wilderness  if  he  would  begin  to  realize  what 
they  went  through. 

They  made  their  last  camp  together  at  a  brackish 
water-hole  near  the  edge  of  the  plain  which  Manley  had 
described.  Beyond  it  they  could  see  the  snow-clad 
peak.  They  repeated  to  one  another  the  legends  on 
the  Williams  map,  its  promise  of  a  pass  close  by  that 
summit  and  of  a  fertile  valley  leading  to  the  gold- 
fields  in  the  north.  If  they  could  only  reach  the  moun 
tain,  they  agreed  their  hardships  would  be  over,  their 
journey  as  good  as  ended. 

They  separated  here  to  set  forth  by  two  different 


HOW  DEATH  VALLEY  WAS  NAMED    15 

routes.  The  Jayhawkers  struck  straight  out  across  the 
flat,  while  the  little  company  of  families  kept  to  a  more 
roundabout  course  in  the  south,  hoping  to  find  water 
in  the  mountains  there.  From  this  time  on,  although 
their  trails  converged  and  crossed,  the  wagons  never 
united  in  one  train  again. 

In  that  silent  land  where  the  skeletons  of  dead 
mountain  ranges  lie  strewn  among  the  graves  of  seas 
that  died  in  ages  past,  they  held  their  eyes  on  the  one 
sign  of  life  that  rose  into  the  clear  sky  beyond,  the 
peak  whose  promise  kept  them  moving  on  into  the  west. 

Days  passed  and  the  smaller  party  found  no  water  in 
any  of  the  canons  which  came  down  to  them  from  the 
south.  They  used  the  last  drops  from  their  casks;  and 
now  they  could  not  eat  for  thirst,  they  could  not  sleep. 
The  children  wailed  for  drink  until  their  voices  died 
away  to  dry  whisperings,  and  when  the  mothers  strove 
to  comfort  them  they  found  their  arid  tongues  had  lost 
the  power  of  shaping  any  words. 

At  last  Manley,  the  young  hunter  with  the  Bennett 
wagons,  discovered  a  warm  spring  near  a  canon  head, 
but  the  oxen  lay  down  in  their  traces  on  their  way  up 
the  gorge  and  the  men  were  obliged  to  bring  water  down 
to  them  in  buckets  before  they  could  get  the  unhappy 
brutes  to  rise.  They  filled  the  barrels  with  the  tepid 
fluid  and  goaded  the  teams  on,  seeking  some  sign  of  a 
pass  in  the  low  black  range  which  lay  between  them  and 
the  snow  peak.  If  there  were  only  an  opening,  it 
seemed  as  if  they  might  win  through. 

Meantime  the  Jayhawkers  were  pressing  hard  across 
the  gleaming  plain.  The  surface  of  that  plain  was 
white  as  snow,  as  level  as  a  floor.  It  was  so  hard  that 


16  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

the  wheels  left  no  track  on  it;  no  shrub  grew  from  it, 
only  a  low  bitter  weed  that  crumbled  to  a  gray  powder 
at  the  slightest  touch.  The  oxen  plodded  along  with 
their  heads  hung  so  low  that  their  muzzles  almost  swept 
the  ground;  they  stood  about  the  camp  at  night,  ema 
ciated  beyond  belief,  swaying  from  weakness,  grating 
their  teeth  as  they  moved  their  jaws  with  a  pathetic 
instinct  of  rumination.  Five  days  passed  and  on  the 
night  of  the  fifth,  when  these  young  fellows  knew  they 
could  not  live  another  twenty-four  hours  without  water, 
a  light  cloud  came  between  them  and  the  stars.  They 
felt  the  cool  touch  of  snowflakes  on  their  faces  and  they 
spread  their  blankets  to  gather  what  they  could  while 
the  oxen  licked  the  moisture  from  the  earth.  The  next 
morning  the  sun  shone  hot  again  upon  the  plain  against 
whose  vast  expanse  the  wagons  showed,  a  little  line  of 
dots  creeping  slowly  toward  the  white-topped  mountain 
in  the  west. 

At  Ash  Meadows  where  the  bitter  waters  of  the  Amar- 
gossa  River  rise  from  their  hidden  depths  to  flow  for  a 
few  hundred  yards  between  gray  hills  of  shifting  sand, 
the  trails  of  the  two  parties  converged.  By  the  time 
they  reached  this  dismal  oasis  they  were  killing  their 
oxen  for  such  shreds  of  meat  as  they  could  strip  from 
the  bones;  but  as  every  wagon  left  the  place,  climbing 
the  divide  beyond,  the  occupants  forgot  their  sufferings 
and  talked  of  the  desert  as  something  which  they  had 
left  behind.  For  Furnace  Creek  Canon  lay  ahead  of 
them,  a  rift  in  the  black  range  which  rose  between  them 
and  the  snow-clad  peak. 

The  Jayhawkers  were  now  in  the  lead.  They  went 
down  the  gorge  whose  black  walls  seemed  to  shut  out 


HOW  DEATH  VALLEY  WAS  NAMED         17 

the  sky  in  places,  and  on  Christmas  morning,  1849,  they 
emerged  from  its  mouth  to  see  the  great  peak  just  ahead 
of  them. 

But,  as  they  looked  up  at  the  mountain  toward  which 
they  had  been  striving  for  so  many  weary  days,  they 
discovered  that  its  sides  were  verdureless,  bare  of  any 
earth,  so  steep  no  man  could  climb  them.  And  there 
was  no  pass. 

They  had  descended  into  the  pitfall  at  its  lowest 
depths.  Here  where  they  first  saw  the  place,  more  than 
two  hundred  feet  below  the  level  of  the  sea,  great  beds 
of  rock  salt  covered  its  floor  worn  by  the  wind  into  a 
myriad  of  pinnacles,  as  high  as  a  man's  waist,  sharp  as 
knives  and  coated  with  brown  dust.  In  the  center  of 
this  weird  forest  a  level  sheet  of  white  salt  lay  glis 
tening  in  the  sun.  Northward  the  deposit  stretched 
away  to  dunes  of  shifting  sand,  and  in  the  south  long 
mud  flats  lay,  covered  with  traceries  of  sun  cracks  as 
far  as  the  eye  could  reach.  The  eastern  mountains 
came  straight  down  in  cliffs  as  black  as  ink.  Eight 
miles  away  the  western  mountains  rose  in  a  sheer  wall 
surmounted  by  Telescope  Peak,  whose  snow-clad  crest 
towered  eleven  thousand  feet  above  the  heads  of  the 
men  whom  it  had  lured  here.  There  was  no  sound  of 
any  life,  no  track  of  any  animal.  No  bird — not  even  a 
buzzard — flew  overhead.  The  very  air  was  a  desert  like 
the  burning  earth. 

Now,  even  as  they  came  down  out  of  Furnace  Creek 
Canon  into  this  trap,  they  began  their  efforts  to  escape 
from  it. 

The  Bennett  party  crossed  the  sink  through  the  for 
est  of  rock-salt  pinnacles  and  headed  southward  along 


18  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

a  strip  of  loose  sand  which  lay  between  the  mud  flat  and 
the  mountains.  They  believed  the  range  might  yet  show 
a  rift  at  this  end  which  their  wagons  could  traverse. 
But  the  Jayhawkers  turned  to  the  north,  seeking  some 
outlet  through  the  Panamints  at  that  end  of  the  range. 
One  family  followed  them.  J.  W  Brier,  a  minister  from 
a  little  frontier  community  in  the  Middle  West,  left  the 
other  section  with  his  wife  and  three  children  in  the 
hope  that  the  young  men  might  find  a  route  to  safety. 

Sometimes  to  this  day  the  winds,  moving  the  dunes  of 
white  sand  in  the  valley's  northern  arm — a  task  which 
they  are  always  at  from  year's  end  to  year's  end — 
uncover  the  fragments  of  wagons,  and  prospectors  come 
upon  a  tire  or  spoke  or  portion  of  a  sun-dried  axle. 
Then  they  know  that  they  are  at  the  place  where  the 
Jayhawkers  abandoned  their  prairie-schooners. 

They  killed  some  of  their  oxen  at  this  point  and 
divided  the  meat — there  was  so  little  of  it  that  although 
the  men  were  now  very  weak  two  of  them  were  able  to 
carry  the  beef  from  an  animal.  Then  they  started  out 
on  foot  acrdss  the  sand  dunes  toward  the  Panamints. 
Most  of  them  still  believed  that  feed  and  water  lay  just 
beyond  those  heights. 

And  now,  while  they  were  straggling  along  through 
the  loose  sand  in  single  file,  one  of  their  number,  a  man 
named  Fish,  was  seen  to  throw  his  hands  above  his  head 
and  pitch  forward  on  his  face.  Those  who  were  behind 
came  upon  him  lying  with  arms  outspread,  dead. 

The  next  afternoon  as  they  were  climbing  toward  the 
head  of  a  steep  caiion  in  the  range,  several  of  the  fore 
most  ones  found  a  little  spring  among  the  rocks.  While 
they  were  resting  here  they  saw  a  man  far  below  them. 


HOW  DEATH  VALLEY  WAS  NAMED    19 

He  was  crawling  toward  them  on  his  hands  and  knees. 
One  of  the  party  filled  his  canteen  and  hurried  down 
to  meet  him;  but  when  he  arrived,  the  other  was  gasp 
ing  his  last  in  the  bottom  of  the  sun-baked  gorge.  It 
was  Captain  Culverwell,  a  skipper  who  had  forsaken 
the  deep  sea  and  its  ships  to  make  this  journey  with 
them  in  the  hope  of  finding  gold. 

That  evening  the  strongest  of  their  number  reached 
the  summit  of  the  Panamints  and  looked  down  the 
western  side  where  they  had  thought  to  find  that  fertile 
valley  which  the  Williams  map  had  promised  leading 
to  the  north.  They  saw  dead  mountain  ranges  and 
dried  lake  floors  like  those  through  which  they  had 
been  traveling  for  months.  The  Mohave  Desert  lay 
in  front  of  them. 

When  they  were  crossing  those  arid  reaches  William 
Isham,  who  had  fiddled  so  blithely  for  them  every 
evening  in  the  Utah  hills,  sank  down  beside  the  trail; 
and  the  others  passed  him  with  empty  canteens,  unable 
to  give  him  any  help.  Some  of  the  stragglers  buried 
his  body  a  few  days  later  on. 

During  the  next  day  or  two  a  Frenchman,  whose 
name  none  of  the  survivors  remember,  went  insane 
from  thirst  and  wandered  off  into  the  sand-hills.  No 
one  ever  saw  him  afterward. 

So  one  after  another  of  their  number  lay  down  and 
died  or  went  mad  and  ran  off  toward  some  of  the 
mirages  which  were  perpetually  torturing  all  of  them 
with  visions  of  cool  lakes,  until  thirteen  had  perished. 
The  others  struggled  on  and  on  into  the  southwest;  for 
they  knew  that  Los  Angeles  lay  somewhere  in  that 
direction  and  it  offered  them  their  only  hope. 


20  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

Meantime  the  Bennett  party  went  southward  along  the 
western  edge  of  the  sink  where  the  sands  lie  as  loose 
and  fine  as  ashes  between  the  mud  flats  and  the  moun 
tains,  until  they  found  a  little  spring  with  a  few 
patches  of  coarse  grass  among  the  mesquite  thickets 
which  surrounded  it.  From  this  point  they  tried  escape 
by  one  route  and  then  another,  only  to  reach  a  blind 
wall  in  each  case  and  retrace  their  steps  to  the  water- 
hole. 

In  later  years  the  mule-drivers  of  the  borax  company 
enlarged  the  well!  which  Asahel  Bennett  and  J.  B. 
Arcane  dug  here  in  the  sand.  Otherwise  the  place 
remains  unchanged,  a  patch  of  mesquite  in  a  burning 
plain  where  heat  devils  dance  all  day  long  from  year's 
end  to  year's  end.  The  plain  reaches  on  and  on  be 
tween  black  mountain  walls,  and  even  the  mirage  which 
springs  from  its  surface  under  that  hot  sun  throws 
off  the  guise  of  a  cool  lake  almost  on  the  moment  of  its 
assumption  to  become  a  repellant  specter  that  leaps  and 
twists  like  a  flame.  The  Paiute  Indians  called  the  spot 
Tomesha,  which  means  "Ground  Afire/' 

The  party  held  a  council  when  they  had  retreated 
here  after  the  last  unsuccessful  attempt  to  escape. 
It  was  clear  that  they  could  not  take  the  women  and 
children  out  of  the  sink  unless  some  one  got  food  for 
the  journey  and  found  a  route  between  water-holes. 
They  appointed  Manley,  the  young  hunter,  and  an 
ox-driver  named  John  Rogers  for  the  venture,  and 
the  pair  set  out  across  the  Panamints  just  north 
of  Telescope  Peak  with  the  beef  from  an  ox  in  their 
knapsacks,  while  the  others  sat  down  to  await  their 
return — or  death. 


HOW  DEATH  VALLEY  WAS  NAMED    21 

There  were  two  wag-on  outfits  of  unmarried  men 
among  them;  they  had  forsaken  the  Jayhawkers 
at  about  the  time  the  Brier  family  joined  that  section. 
When  several  days  had  passed  these  bachelors  departed 
to  seek  the  trail  of  their  former  companions  in  the 
valley's  north  arm.  They  said  that  the  chances  were 
ten  to  one  that  Mauley  and  Rogers  would  never  get 
through  alive,  and  if  they  did  they  would  be  fools 
to  attempt  coming  back.  The  others  watched  the  two 
prairie-schooners  crawling  off  into  the  gray  plain  until 
a  mirage  engulfed  them  and  lifted  them  distorted  into 
the  blazing  sky. 

And  now  the  families  faced  the  question  which  these 
men  had  left  with  them.  Would  Manley  and  Rogers  get 
through?  They  did  not  know  what  hazards  lay  be 
yond  those  mountains  to  the  west,  but  none  of  them 
had  the  Jayhawkers'  faith  in  a  fertile  valley  leading 
to  the  north.  As  it  turned  out  Mount  Whitney  was 
the  snow-clad  peak  to  which  the  faulty  Williams  map 
referred  and  the  valley  was  the  Owens  Lake  country, 
many  a  weary  mile  from  this  sink. 

If  the  pair  did  survive  the  desert,  would  they  be 
men  enough  to  face  it  for  the  second  time?  The 
marooned  ones  could  only  hope.  That  hope  had  be 
come  an  abiding  faith  in  Bennett's  wife.  She  had 
given  the  two  young  fellows  a  double  handful  of  rice — 
half  her  store  of  grain — on  the  morning  of  their  de 
parture,  and  pointed  mutely  to  her  children  as  she 
placed  the  little  bag  in  Manley 's  hand.  "They  will 
come  back,"  she  told  the  others  many  times. 

The  food  was  running  low;  the  few  remaining  oxen 
could  not  last  them  long.  There  was  a  dog  with  the 


22  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

Bennett  wagons;  he  had  followed  them  all  the  way 
from  Iowa;  and  in  this  time  of  dire  extremity  some 
talked  of  killing  him.  But  even  in  his  starved  con 
dition  he  was  able  to  wag  his  tail  when  the  children 
came  near  him;  sometimes  he  comforted  them  by  his 
presence  when  their  mothers  could  not.  The  men  had 
not  the  heart  to  do  away  with  him. 

Hope  lingered  within  those  people  like  the  breath 
in  an  old  man  who  is  dying  hard.  Rogers  and  Manley 
had  gone4  northward  on  the  burning  plain  to  reach  a 
ridge  which  mounted  toward  the  Panamints.  Now 
as  the  days  dragged  by  to  weary  weeks,  the  men  and 
women  always  gazed  into  the  north  where  nothing 
lived  except  the  hatred  for  the  sun.  But  no  man  came, 
and  when  the  weeks  had  grown  beyond  a  month,  they 
knew  the  time,  was  here  when  they  must  make  one 
last  attempt  to  save  themselves.  They  yoked  up  the 
oxen  and  set  out  into  the  south  toward  a  spot  where 
Bennett  had  discovered  what  looked  like  a  gap  in  the 
mountains.  Three  days  later  they  returned,  half  dead 
from  thirst,  and  unhitched  the  staggering  animals  by 
the  well. 

There  remained  one  shadow  of  a  chance,  as  ephemeral 
as  the  mirage  which  came  before  them  with  the  mount- 
ing  of  each  morning's  sun.  They  stripped  the  tops 
from  the  prairie-schooners  and  began  to  make  pack- 
saddles  from  them  with  the  idea  of  abandoning  the 
vehicles  and  following  the  trail  of  the  Jayhawkers. 

At  midday  they  were  sitting  under  the  wagons  for 
what  shade  they  gave,  working  at  this  task.  They 
knew  it  was  a  futile  proceeding;  the  time  had  long 


HOW  DEATH  VALLEY  WAS  NAMED    23 

since  gone  when  they  had  enough  provisions  to  last 
them  through  that  long  northern  route.  But  they 
were  not  the  sort  of  people  who  can  sit  down  and  die. 
If  they  must  perish  it  would  be  while  they  were  still 
fighting.  No  one  spoke.  The  silence  of  the  dead  land 
had  crept  over  them. 

That  silence  was  broken  by  a  shot.  Unbelieving, 
they  crept  forth  and  saw  three  figures  moving  toward 
them  from  the  north.  Manley  and  Rogers  were  hurry- 
across  the  flat  leading  a  laden  mule. 

While  the  others  ate  from  the  store  in  the  pack- 
sacks,  the  two  young  fellows  told  of  their  journey 
two  hundred  and  fifty  miles  across  the  Mohave  Desert ; 
of  the  dead  of  the  Jayhawker  party  whom  they  had 
found  beside  the  trail;  of  the  survivors  whom  they 
passed  shortly  before  reaching  a  ranch  near  the  head 
of  the  San  Fernando  valley  where  the  little  town  of 
Newhall  stands  to-day;  of  great  arid  mountain  ranges 
and  shimmering  floors  of  dried  lakes;  and  of  the  long 
torture  between  water-holes.  At  the  Newhall  ranch  a 
man  named  French  had  given  them  the  mule  and  the 
provisions.  With  this  food  supply  they  believed  the 
women  and  children  stood  a  chance  of  getting  through. 

They  slung  the  sacks  of  canvas  on  the  gaunt  oxen 
and  placed  the  children  in  them;  then  they  set  out 
on  their  long  climb  up  the  Panamints. 

Before  they  left  the  summit  of  the  divide  to  go 
downhill  into  the  west,  they  halted  for  one  last  look 
back.  And  as  they  stood  there  among  the  rocks  gazing 
down  into  the  sink  which  lay  thousands  of  feet  below 
them  walled  in  by  the  mountains  on  both  sides,  one 


24  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

of  the  mothers  lifted  her  arm  in  a  gesture  of  farewell. 

"Good-by,  Death  Valley!"  she  cried. 

That  is  the  way  the  place  was  named. 

They  turned  their  backs  on  it  and  descended  the 
long  western  slope.  The  dog,  which  they  had  taken 
with  them  all  this  distance,  limped  along  behind  the 
little  train.  The  mule  went  on  before.  And  in  Los 
Angeles,  where  they  joined  the  other  survivors  of  the 
company  weeks  later  and  told  the  people  of  the  pueblo 
of  their  sufferings,  they  called  the  sink  Death  Valley 
when  they  spoke  of  it. 

Later,  when  they  had  gone  into  the  north — for  all  of 
them  pressed  on  as  soon  as  they  were  able  to  travel 
again — they  separated,  seeking  their  fortunes  in  the 
mines.  Years  passed  and  occasionally  some  of  them 
met  again.  At  such  times,  or  when  they  told  others  of 
the  pitfall  into  which  they  descended  striving  toward 
the  snow  peak,  they  always  used  the  name  Death  Valley. 
And  so  it  has  come  down  to  us  to-day. 


JOAQUIN  MURIETA 

IN  the  days  of  '49  when  Murphy's  Diggings  was  as 
lively  a  little  placer  camp  as  one  could  find  in  a 
long  ride  through  the  red  foot-hills  of  the  Sierras,  a 
young  Mexican  monte-dealer  disappeared.  He  was  a 
handsome  fellow,  lighter  of  complexion  than  most  of 
his  countrymen,  owned  a  sunny  smile  and  spoke  English 
fluently,  all  of  which  things  made  him  a  favorite  among 
the  American  customers  and  consequently  an  asset 
to  the  house.  So  when  dusk  came  and  the  booted 
miners  began  drifting  into  the  long  canvas-roofed 
hall,  the  proprietor  scanned  the  crowd  for  him  with 
some  anxiety. 

But  the  proprietor  might  as  well  have  saved  him 
self  the  trouble  of  that  search;  the  monte-dealer  had 
forsaken  his  table  for  a  different  sort  of  job. 

Just  at  this  time  he  was  on  the  hill  beyond  the  upper 
end  of  the  camp  kneeling  beside  an  open  grave;  and  in 
his  clasped  hands,  uplifted  high  above  his  head,  he  held 
a  naked  bowie-knife.  Some  light  still  lingered  here 
among  the  stiff-branched  digger-pines,  a  faint  reflection 
of  the  sunset  far  beyond  the  flat  lands  of  the  San 
Joaquin  valley.  It  shone  upon  his  face  revealing  a 
multitude  of  lines,  so  deeply  scored,  so  terrible  in  their 
proclamation  of  deadly  hate,  that  the  sight  of  them 
would  have  startled  the  most  case-hardened  member  of 

25 


26  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

the  crowds  down  there  where  the  candles  were  twin 
kling  in  the  humming  camp. 

The  waning  light  which  sifted  through  the  long 
plumed  tassels  of  the  digger-pines  showed  a  little  group 
of  Mexicans  standing  at  some  distance  listening  in 
frightened  silence  to  what  he  was  saying.  He  spoke  to 
the  dead  man  in  the  open  grave ;  and  when  events  that 
followed  brought  the  words  back  to  their  minds  some  of 
these  auditors  repeated  the  vow  he  made :  to  color  that 
knife-blade  and  his  hands  bright  red  with  the  blood  of 
twenty  men  of  Murphy's  Diggings;  and  after  that  to 
devote  his  life  to  killing  Americans. 

This  was  the  monte-dealer 's  new  job,  and  in  order  to 
understand  how  he  came  to  undertake  such  a  piece  of 
work  it  is  necessary  to  go  back  a  little. 

He  was  only  nineteen,  but  life  had  been  moving  so 
swiftly  with  him  that  the  beginning  of  these  events 
finds  him  in  that  year  overseer  of  his  father's  great 
rancho  down  in  Sonora,  a  Mexican  of  the  better  class, 
well  educated  as  education  went  in  those  days,  a  good 
dancer  as  every  girl  in  the  section  could  bear  witness, 
pleasure-loving,  easy-going,  and  able  to  play  the  guitar 
very  prettily.  Sometimes — and  more  often  as  the 
weeks  went  by — he  played  and  sang  at  the  home  of 
Reyes  Feliz,  a  packer  in  his  father's  employ;  and 
Kosita,  the  packer's  daughter,  liked  his  music  well 
enough  to  encourage  his  visits. 

Class  counted  then,  as  it  does  to  this  day  in  Mexico, 
and  parents  liked  to  have  a  hand  in  marriages.  But 
Reyes  Feliz  was  away  from  home  a  great  deal  with  his 
train  of  mules,  the  landholder  was  busy  at  his  own 
affairs;  the  girl  was  a  beauty  and  the  landholder's  son 


JOAQUIN  MURIETA  27 

had  a  winsome  way  with  him.  So  one  night  Rosita  took 
the  horse  which  he  brought  for  her  and  rode  off  with 
him  to  California. 

They  made  their  journey  with  their  mounts  and  a 
single  pack  animal  across  the  hot  plains  and  arid 
mountains  of  the  south,  then  up  the  long  King's  High 
way  which  the  padres  had  beaten  down  nearly  one 
hundred  years  before  their  time.  It  was  winter  and 
California  winter  means  Eastern  spring;  green  grass 
rippling  in  the  soft  breezes,  poppy-fields  and  a  rioting 
of  meadow-larks  to  make  their  honeymoon  ideal.  They 
rode  on  northward  into  the  Santa  Clara  valley  where  a 
gleaming  mist  of  mustard  blossoms  hung  under  the 
great  live  oaks  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach;  then  they 
struck  off  eastward  across  the  Coast  Range  and  the  flat 
lands  of  the  San  Joaquin,  to  climb  into  the  red  foot 
hills  where  the  Stanislaus  comes  out  from  the  Sierras. 
Here  they  settled  down  and  took  a  mining  claim. 

The  feeling  engendered  by  the  Mexican  War  still 
rankled  in  many  neighborhoods;  and  every  mining 
camp  had  its  lawless  element  whose  members  took  full 
advantage  of  that  prejudice  against  the  conquered  race. 
The  claim  proved  rich  enough  to  tempt  some  ne'er-do- 
wells.  They  gathered  a  crowd  of  their  own  breed  and 
the  mob  came  to  the  young  pair's  cabin  one  evening 
with  the  purpose  of  jumping  the  property.  When  the 
owner  made  a  show  of  resistance  they  bound  him  hand 
and  foot,  after  which  they  subjected  the  girl  to  such 
abuses  as  will  not  bear  the  telling.  She  pleaded  with 
her  lover  when  the  crowd  had  gone  and  managed  to 
induce  him  to  leave  the  place  without  attempting  ven 
geance.  They  went  to  Columbia  and  within  the  month 


28  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

were  driven  out  by  another  anti-Mexican  mob.  Their 
next  move  took  them  to  Murphy's  Diggings,  where  the 
boy  got  his  job  at  dealing  monte  and  was  doing  very 
well — until  this  evening  came,  and  with  it,  tragedy. 

He  had  been  visiting  his  brother,  who  had  come  to 
California  and  settled  near  Murphy's;  and  the  latter 
had  lent  him  a  horse  to  ride  home.  As  he  was  nearing 
the  upper  end  of  the  camp  a  group  of  miners  stepped 
out  into  the  road  before  him  and  halted  him.  The  horse 
had  been  stolen  from  one  of  their  number  and  they 
were  searching  for  it  at  the  time. 

They  listened  to  his  explanations  and  went  with  him 
to  his  brother  who  told  them  how  he  had  bought  the 
animal  in  good  faith  from  a  stranger.  Whereat  they 
seized  the  narrator,  bound  him,  and  hanged  him  to  the 
nearest  live-oak  tree;  then  stripped  the  monte-dealer  to 
the  waist,  tied  him  to  the  same  tree,  and  flogged  him 
until  the  blood  ran  down  his  bare  back.  After  which 
they  departed,  satisfied  that  they  had  done  their  share  to 
bring  about  law  and  order  in  a  neighborhood  where  thefts 
were  becoming  altogether  too  frequent.  But  some  of 
them  mentioned  in  Murphy's  Diggings — during  the 
brief  space  of  time  while  they  had  the  opportunity — 
the  strange  expression  which  came  over  their  victim's 
face  while  the  lash  was  being  applied.  Each  of  these 
men  spoke  of  the  look  as  having  been  directed  at  him 
self.  Had  they  been  members  of  one  of  the  dark- 
skinned  races,  to  whom  the  vendetta  is  peculiarly  an 
institution,  they  would  have  understood  the  purport  of 
that  look. 

But  none  of  them  understood  and  the  monte-dealer 
was  left  to  keep  his  promise  to  his  dead  brother.  He 


JOAQUIN  MURIETA  29 

turned  his  back  upon  the  grave  and  went  about  the  ful 
filment  of  that  vow  as  ambitious  men  go  about  the 
making  of  careers;  and  in  the  days  that  followed,  while 
his  swarthy  company  was  sweeping  through  California 
like  fire  on  a  chaparral  hillside  when  the  wind  is  high, 
he  gained  a  dark  fame,  so  lasting  that  there  is  hardly 
an  old  settled  community  from  Mount  Shasta  to  the 
Mexican  line  which  has  not  some  tale  of  the  bandit, 
Joaquin  Murieta. 

Sometimes  during  the  weeks  after  the  lynching  a 
miner  on  his  way  to  the  gambling-houses  after  supper 
got  a  glimpse  of  Joaquin  Murieta  in  the  outskirts  of 
Murphy's  Diggings,  as  he  glided  among  the  tents 
cloaked  to  his  eyes  in  his  scrape.  Occasionally  a  late 
reveler,  returning  to  his  cabin  in  the  darkness,  was 
startled  by  the  sight  of  his  figure  beside  the  road,  as 
black  and  silent  as  the  night  itself;  or  was  chilled  to 
dead  sobriety  by  the  vision  of  that  drawn  face  confront 
ing  him  on  a  narrow  trail.  And  in  the  chilly  mornings 
men  going  to  their  work  came  on  the  bodies  of  his 
victims  in  the  soft  red  dust  of  path  or  wagon-track, 
or  stumbled  over  them  in  the  chaparral. 

And  now  fear  began  to  seize  the  survivors  of  that 
lynching  party.  By  the  time  its  twenty  members  had 
dwindled  to  something  like  a  dozen,  the  succession  of 
spectacles  afforded  by  the  companions  whom  they  had 
been  summoned  to  identify  was  getting  on  the  stoutest 
nerves;  the  dullest  imaginations  were  working 
feverishly.  Some  found  friends  to  act  as  body-guards; 
others  moved  away  to  try  their  fortunes  in  new  camps ; 
but  the  body-guards  could  not  be  on  duty  all  the  time 
and  the  departing  ones  in  most  instances  made  the  mis- 


30  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

take  of  confiding  their  intentions  to  acquaintances.  All 
authorities  agree  that  Joaquin  Murieta  managed  to  kill 
at  least  fifteen — and  possibly  two  or  three  more — of  the 
score  whose  faces  he  had  so  carefully  imprinted  on  his 
memory  while  the  lash  was  biting  into  his  bare  back. 

When  he  had  finished  with  the  work  which  the  first 
part  of  his  vow  demanded,  he  rode  away  from  Murphy 's 
with  Rosita  and  set  about  the  task  of  gathering  a  band 
that  he  might  be  able  to  carry  out  the  second  half. 

There  were  plenty  of  cutthroats  in  California  during 
that  spring  of  1850,  and  no  lack  of  Mexicans  among 
them.  Several  swarthy  leaders  of  banditti  were  then 
operating  throughout  the  State.  One  of  these  was 
Manuel  Garcia,  better  known  as  Three-Fingered  Jack, 
who  had  been  ranging  over  the  Sonoma  valley  for 
several  years,  occasionally  varying  the  monotony  of 
murder  by  tying  a  victim  to  a  tree  and  flaying  him  alive. 
Joaquin  Valenzuela  was  another,  a  middle-aged  outlaw 
who  had  learned  the  finer  arts  of  bushwhacking  down  in 
Mexico  under  Padre  Jurata,  the  famous  guerrilla  chief. 
There  were  also  Claudio,  a  lean  and  seasoned  robber 
from  the  mountains  of  Sonora,  adept  in  disguises,  skil 
ful  as  a  spy,  able  to  mingle  with  the  crowd  in  any  plaza 
unrecognized  by  men  who  had  known  him  for  years; 
and  Pedro  Gonzales,  a  specialist  at  horse-stealing,  who 
had  driven  off  whole  bands  under  the  very  noses  of 
armed  herders. 

Every  one  of  these  leaders  had  his  own  ugly  gang  of 
riders  and  his  own  ill  fame  long  before  young  Joaquin 
Murieta  ceased  dealing  monte;  and  every  one  was 
getting  rich  pickings  from  pack  trains,  stage-coaches, 
valley  ranches,  and  miners'  cabins.  Yet  within  six 


JOAQUIN  MURIETA  31 

months  they  all  turned  over  their  bands  and  became 
lieutenants  of  the  nineteen-year-old  boy.  That  list  of 
victims  at  Murphy's  Diggings,  his  superior  breeding, 
and  his  finer  intelligence  gave  him  high  standing  from 
the  beginning,  but  his  greatest  asset  was  the  purpose 
which  had  driven  him  forth  among  them.  They  had 
robbed  and  killed  and  fled  with  the  aimlessness  of  com 
mon  murderers,  but  here  was  one  with  a  definite  plan, 
to  leave  the  whole  State  a  smoking  shambles.  They 
submitted  their  lives  and  fortunes  to  the  possessor  of 
this  appealing  idea. 

During  the  first  year,  while  organization  was  being 
perfected,  Joaquin  Murieta  traveled  through  northern 
California  with  Rosita  gathering  recruits,  establishing 
alliances  among  disaffected  Mexicans,  and  spying  out 
new  fields  for  plunder.  Gradually,  as  he  accomplished 
these  things,  the  bands  under  his  different  lieutenants 
began  to  rob  and  plunder  more  systematically,  and  the 
scene  of  their  operations  shifted  with  bewildering 
rapidity.  To-day  a  number  of  travelers  were  dragged 
from  their  horses  by  the  reatas  of  swarthy  ambus- 
caders  in  the  Tuolomne  County  foot-hills  and  to-morrow 
a  rancher  down  in  the  valley  found  the  bodies  of  his 
murdered  herders  to  mark  the  beginning  of  the  trail 
left  by  his  stolen  cattle.  As  the  months  went  by  sus 
picion  that  these  different  bands  were  working  under 
one  leader  grew  to  certainty  among  the  longer-headed 
officers.  Then  the  name  of  Joaquin  Murieta  began  to  be 
spoken  as  that  of  the  mysterious  chief.  He  was  quick 
to  confirm  the  rumors  of  his  leadership,  and  before  the 
spring  of  1851  was  over  he  managed  by  grimly 
spectacular  methods  to  let  more  than  one  community 


32  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

know  that  he  was  responsible  for  some  outrage  which 
had  startled  its  inhabitants. 

That  was  the  case  in  San  Jose.  A  number  of  the 
robbers  had  swooped  down  into  the  Santa  Clara  valley 
and  their  chief  was  living  with  Rosita  in  the  outskirts 
of  the  town,  directing  their  raids,  giving  them  such 
information  regarding  travelers  and  plunder  as  he  was 
able  to  pick  up  by  mixing  with  the  crowds  in  the 
gambling-houses.  A  deputy  sheriff  by  the  name  of 
Clark  captured  two  of  the  marauders  red-handed,  and 
Murieta  determined  to  make  such  an  example  of  him 
as  would  put  fear  into  the  hearts  of  other  officers. 

In  those  days  the  fandango  was  a  popular  function  in 
San  Jose,  which  still  retained  all  the  characteristics  of 
a  Mexican  pueblo,  and  there  was  not  a  night  without 
the  strumming  of  guitars  and  the  lively  stepping  of  the 
dancers  in  some  public  hall.  Murieta  went  to  one  of 
these  fandangos  and,  by  arrangement  with  confederates, 
brought  it  about  that  Clark  came  to  the  place  searching 
for  a  criminal. 

The  dancing  was  in  full  swing  when  the  deputy 
entered;  scores  of  lithe  dark  men  and  their  black-eyed 
partners  were  whirling  in  the  ferved  Spanish  waltz; 
but  as  he  crossed  the  threshold  a  discordant  note  arose : 
disturbance  broke  out  in  a  corner  of  the  hall ;  a  woman 
screamed;  a  knife-blade  flashed.  Clark  shoved  his  way 
through  the  crowd  and  reached  the  fight  in  time  to  dis 
arm  a  good-looking  young  Mexican  who  was  flourishing 
the  weapon ;  placed  him  under  arrest  and  took  him  away 
to  the  nearest  justice  of  the  peace,  who  passed  sentence 
of  twelve  dollars'  fine. 

"I  have  not  the  money  on  me,"  the  prisoner  said, 


JOAQUIN  MURIETA  33 

''but  if  this  officer  will  go  with  me  to  my  house  I  can  get 
it  there."  It  was  an  easy-going  period  and  such  small 
matters  as  pulling  a  knife  were  of  frequent  occurrence. 
The  deputy  consented  to  the  request  and  the  pair  went 
forth  together  from  the  lighted  streets  to  the  fringes  of 
the  town.  They  were  talking  pleasantly  enough  when 
they  came  to  a  dark  place  where  willow  thickets  lined 
the  road  on  either  side. 

Here  the  prisoner  halted  abruptly.  "I  am  Joaquin 
Murieta,"  he  announced,  "and  I  brought  you  here  to 
kill  you."  Upon  which  he  stabbed  Clark  to  the  heart. 

All  this  was  told  the  next  day  in  the  streets  of  San 
Jose,  but  where  the  information  came  from  no  one  knew. 
Murieta 's  custom  of  sending  out  such  tidings  through 
confederates  was  not  so  well  understood  then  as  it  came 
to  be  later. 

From  San  Jose  Murieta  went  northward  into  the 
Sacramento  valley  and  took  quarters  with  Rosita  in 
Sonorian  Camp,  a  Mexican  settlement  near  Marysville. 
About  twenty  cutthroats  under  Valenzuela  and  Three- 
Fingered  Jack  began  working  in  the  neighborhood. 
The  ambush  was  their  favorite  method — three  or  four 
in  a  party  and  one  of  the  number  ready  with  his  reata. 
When  this  one  had  cast  the  noose  of  rawhide  rope  over 
the  neck  of  some  passing  traveler  and  dragged  him  from 
the  saddle  into  the  brush  the  others  killed  the  victim  at 
their  leisure.  The  number  of  the  murders  grew  so 
appalling  that  Sheriff  R.  B.  Buchanan  devoted  all  his 
time  to  hunting  down  the  criminals.  Finally  he  got 
word  of  the  rendezvous  in  Sonorian  Camp  and  took 
a  small  posse  to  capture  the  leaders. 

But  the  news  of  the  sheriff's  expedition  had  preceded 


34  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

him,  and  when  they  had  crept  upon  the  tent  houses  in 
the  dark,  as  silent  as  Indians,  the  members  of  the  posse 
found  themselves  encircled  by  unseen  enemies  whose 
pistols  streaked  the  gloom  with  thin  bright  orange 
flashes.  While  the  others  were  fighting  their  way  out 
of  the  ambush  Sheriff  Buchanan  emptied  his  own 
weapon  in  a  duel  with  one  of  the  robbers,  and  collapsed 
badly  wounded  in  several  places.  Weeks  later,  during 
his  recovery,  Joaquin  Murieta  sent  the  sheriff  word  that 
he  was  the  man  who  had  shot  him  down. 

Northward  the  band  rode  now  from  Marysville  until 
they  reached  the  forest  wilderness  near  Mount  Shasta, 
where  they  spent  the  most  of  the  winter  stealing  horses. 
Before  spring  they  went  south  again,  traveling  for  the 
most  part  by  night,  and  drove  their  stolen  stock  into 
the  State  of  Sonora.  Their  loot  disposed  of  and  a  per 
manent  market  established  down  across  the  line,  Murieta 
led  them  back  into  California  to  begin  operations  on  a 
more  ambitious  scale.  He  planned  to  steal  two  thousand 
horses  and  plunder  the  mining  camps  of  enough  gold- 
dust  to  equip  at  least  two  thousand  riders  who  should 
sweep  the  State  in  such  a  raid  as  the  world  had  not 
known  since  the  Middle  Ages. 

In  April — almost  two  years  to  a  day  after  the  monte- 
dealer  had  left  his  job  at  Murphy's  Diggings — six 
Mexicans  came  riding  into  the  town  of  Mokelumne  Hill, 
which  lies  on  a  bench-land  above  the  river.  A  some 
what  dandified  sextet  in  serapes  of  the  finest  broad 
cloth  and  with  a  wealth  of  silver  on  the  trappings 
of  their  dancing  horses,  they  passed  up  the  main  street 
into  the  outskirts  where  their  countrymen  had  a  neigh 
borhood  to  themselves. 


JOAQUIN  MURIETA  35 

Here  they  took  quarters  in  those  tent-roofed  cottages 
which  were  so  common  in  the  old  mining  camps,  and 
now  three  of  them  appeared  in  their  proper  garb,  well- 
gowned  young  housewives  and  discreet  to  a  degree 
which  must  have  exasperated  those  of  the^r  neigh 
bors  inclined  to  gossip.  For  these  ladies  had  nothing 
to  say  concerning  whence  they  had  come  or  the  business 
of  their  husbands.  Two  of  those  husbands  were  now 
spending  much  of  their  time  in  other  camps  and  came 
home  but  seldom  to  pay  brief  visits  to  their  wives. 
The  third  stayed  here  in  Mokelumne  Hill. 

The  days  went  by;  the  pack-trains  jingled  down  out 
of  the  hills;  the  processions  of  heavy  wagons  lumbered 
up  from  the  San  Joaquin  valley  enwrapped  in  clouds 
of  red  dust;  an  endless  stream  of  men  flowed  into  the 
town  on  its  bench-land  above  the  caiion  where  the  river 
brawled.  Men  from  all  the  world,  they  came  and  went, 
and  the  milling  crowds  absorbed  those  who  lingered,  nor 
heeded  who  they  were.  Gold  was  plentiful,  and  while 
the  yellow  dust  was  passing  from  hand  to  hand  life 
moved  so  swiftly  that  no  one  had  time  to  think  of  his 
neighbor's  business.  The  good-looking  young  Mexican 
was  as  a  drop  of  water  in  a  rapid  stream. 

When  dusk  crept  up  out  of  the  canon  and  the  candles 
filled  the  gambling-houses  with  floods  of  mellow 
radiance  he  mingled  with  the  crowds.  He  drank  with 
those  who  asked  him  and  talked  with  those  who  cared  to 
pass  a  word  with  him;  talked  about  the  output  of  the 
near-by  gulches,  the  necessity  of  armed  guards  for  the 
wagons  and  pack-trains,  or  the  chances  of  capturing 
Joaquin  Murieta.  In  spite  of  his  good  looks  and  ex 
pensive  clothes  he  was  about  as  unobtrusive  as  a  Mexi- 


36  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

can  could  be,  which  is  saying  a  god  deal  at  the  period. 

One  April  evening  he  was  sitting  at  a  monte-game. 
The  gambling-hall  was  filled  with  raw-boned  packers 
from  the  hills,  dust-stained  teamsters  from  the  valley 
towns,  miners  from  the  diggings,  and  a  riffraff  of  ad 
venturers  from  no  one  knew — or  cared — where.  It  was 
a  booted  crowd  with  a  goodly  sprinkling  of  red  shirts  to 
give  it  color,  and  weapons  in  evidence  on  every  side. 
Here  walked  one  with  a  brace  of  long-barreled  muzzle- 
loading  pistols  in  his  belt,  and  there  another  with  the 
handle  of  a  bowie-knife  protruding  from  his  boot-top; 
and  every  one  of  those  frock-coated  dealers  at  the  tables 
had  a  Derringer  or  two  stowed  away  on  that  portion  of 
his  person  which  he  deemed  most  accessible.  The  bar 
tender  kept  a  double-barreled  shot-gun  under  the 
counter  across  which  the  drinks  were  being  served. 

In  the  midst  of  this  animated  arsenal  the  dark-eyed 
young  Mexican  dandy  sat  placing  his  bets  while  the 
dealer  turned  the  cards  and  luck  came,  after  luck's 
fashion,  where  it  pleased.  As  he  played,  a  group  of 
miners  just  behind  him  began  arguing  about  the  bandit 
whose  name  was  now  famous  all  the  way  from  Mount 
Shasta  to  the  Mexican  line.  One  of  them,  a  strapping 
fellow  with  a  brace  of  pistols  at  his  waist,  became  im 
patient  at  something  which  another  had  said  concerning 
the  robber 's  apparent  invulnerability  and  raised  his  voice 
in  the  heat  of  his  rejoinder. 

"Joaquin  Murieta!"  he  cried.  "Say!  I  'd  just  like 
to  see  that  fellow  once  and  I  'd  shoot  him  down  as  if  he 
was  a  rattlesnake. " 

A  noise  behind  him  made  him  turn  his  head,  and 
now,  like  all  the  others  in  that  room,  he  stared  at  the 


JOAQUIN  MURIETA  37 

dandified  young  Mexican  who  had  leaped  to  the  top  of 
the  monte-table  and  was  standing  there  among  the  litter 
of  cards  and  gold.  His  broadcloth  serape  was  thrown 
back ;  his  two  hands  moved  swiftly  to  his  belt  and  came 
away  gripping  a  pair  of  pistols. 

"I  am  Joaquin  Murieta,"  he  shouted  so  loudly  that 
his  voice  carried  the  length  of  the  hall.  ''Now  shoot!" 

A  moment  passed ;  he  stood  there  with  his  head  thrown 
back,  his  dark  eyes  sweeping  the  crowd,  but  no  man  on 
the  floor  so  much  as  moved  a  hand.  Then  laughing  he 
sprang  down  and  walked  slowly  among  them  to  the 
front  door.  They  fell  away  before  him  as  he  came  and 
he  vanished  in  the  shadows  of  the  narrow  street  before 
one  of  them  sought  to  follow  him. 

The  others  of  the  sextet  were  waiting  for  him  when 
he  reached  the  Mexican  quarter;  their  horses  were  sad 
dled;  and  at  a  word  from  him  they  mounted.  For  he 
and  his  two  lieutenants  had  finished  their  work;  they 
knew  all  they  cared  to  know  about  the  gold  trains  and  the 
caches  of  the  miners,  and  this  was  to  have  been  their 
last  evening  in  camp.  With  their  gathered  information 
they  rode  southward  to  Arroyo  Cantoova,  in  the  foot 
hills  of  the  Coast  Range  at  the  western  edge  of  the 
upper  San  Joaquin  valley.  This  was  the  band's  new 
headquarters. 

They  remained  here  for  some  days  resting  before  the 
next  raid.  Gold  was  plentiful  among  them ;  the  leaders 
dressed  with  the  splendor  of  noblemen;  not  one  of 
those  leaders — save  Three-Fingered  Jack — but  had  his 
mistress  beside  him  decked  out  like  a  Spanish  lady ;  nor 
one  but  rode  a  clean-limbed  thoroughbred.  When  the 
hills  were  turning  brown  with  summer's  beginning 


38  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

young  Murieta  led  them  out  across  the  range  and  south 
ward  to  the  country  around  Los  Angeles. 

Success  had  made  him  so  serene  that  during  the  jour 
ney  he  sometimes  forgot  his  grim  vow  of  shedding 
blood  and  showed  mercy  to  a  victim  who  had  no  great 
store  of  gold.  More  than  once  Rosita  induced  him  to 
spare  the  lives  of  prisoners ;  and  if  his  career  had  ended 
at  this  time  his  name  would  have  come  down  surrounded 
by  legends  of  magnanimity.  But  as  he  went  on  now 
that  large  plan  of  bloodshed  became  more  of  a  power 
in  his  life.  And  as  it  grew  to  master  him  he  saw  Rosita 
less;  he  sought  more  frequently  the  companionship  of 
Three-Fingered  Jack,  who  killed  for  killing  7s  sake  alone. 
During  the  last  two  years  he  had  often  slipped  away 
from  his  followers  and  stolen  into  the  church  of  some 
near-by  town,  to  recite  the  dark  catalogue  of  his  sins 
in  the  curtained  confessional;  but  no  priest  heard  him 
tell  his  misdeeds  from  this  time  on. 

In  the  north  end  of  Los  Angeles,  where  the  old  plaza 
church  fronts  the  little  square  of  green  turf  and  cab 
bage-palms,  you  can  still  find  a  few  of  the  one-story 
adobe  buildings  which  lined  the  streets  on  the  July 
afternoon  when  Joaquin  Murieta  whispered  into  Deputy 
Sheriff  Wilson's  ear. 

He  was  a  young  man,  this  deputy,  and  bold,  and  he 
had  come  all  the  way  from  Santa  Barbara  to  help  hunt 
down  the  famous  bandit  whose  followers  were  burning 
ranch  buildings  and  murdering  travelers  from  the  sum 
mits  of  the  southland's  mountains  to  the  yellow  beaches 
by  the  summer  sea.  Unlike  many  of  the  pueblo's  citi 
zens,  who  had  formed  the  habit  of  talking  of  such 


JOAQUIN  MURIETA  39 

matters  in  undertones  and  looking  over  their  shoulders 
as  they  did  so,  for  fear  some  lurking  Mexican  might  be 
one  of  Murieta's  spies,  he  voiced  his  opinions  loudly 
enough  for  all  to  hear.  "Get  good  men  together,"  he 
said,  "and  smoke  these  robbers  out.  I  'm  ready  to  go 
with  a  posse  any  time."  He  preached  that  gospel  of 
action  in  the  drinking-places,  in  the  gambling-halls,  and 
on  the  street,  until  the  very  vigor  of  his  voice  put  new 
heart  into  the  listeners.  It  was  beginning  to  look  as  if 
young  Deputy  Sheriff  WiLson  had  really  started  things 
moving. 

On  a  hot  July  afternoon  he  was  standing  on  the 
narrow  sidewalk  surrounded  by  a  group  whose  members 
his  enthusiasm  had  drawn  out  of  doors.  Few  others 
were  abroad ;  an  occasional  Mexican  woman  in  her  black 
skirt  and  tight-drawn  reboso,  a  peon  or  two  slouching 
gracefully  by  with  the  inevitable  brown  cigarette,  and  a 
solitary  horseman  who  was  coming  down  the  street. 

The  men  in  the  group  were  so  intent  on  what  the 
deputy  was  saying  that  none  of  them  observed  the  ap 
proach  of  this  horseman  until  he  reined  in  his  animal 
close  to  the  sidewalk's  edge.  Then  they  saw  him  lean 
from  the  saddle  and  whisper  into  Wilson *s  ear. 

What  words  passed  from  his  lips  these  others  never 
knew.  There  was  not  time  for  him  to  utter  more  than 
one  or  two;  perhaps  to  tell  his  name.  They  saw  his 
white  teeth  flashing  in  an  unpleasant  smile;  and  Wil 
son's  hand  moved  toward  his  gun.  But  in  the  middle 
of  that  movement  the  young  officer  pitched  forward  on 
his  face.  The  sharp  report  of  a  pistol,  the  scrape  of 
hoofs,  the  smell  of  black  powder  smoke,  and  the  vision  of 


40  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

the  rider  through  the  tenuous  wreaths  as  he  whirled  his 
horse  about — these  things  came  to  the  dazed  witnesses 
in  a  sort  of  blur. 

The  sound  of  the  shot  awakened  the  drowsing  street 
and  many  who  ran  to  their  doorways  saw  the  murderer 
riding  away  at  a  swinging  gallop.  Some  of  these  claimed 
to  recognize  him  as  Joaquin  Murieta,  and  in  the  days 
that  followed  their  statements  were  confirmed  by  cap 
tured  members  of  the  band. 

Deputy  Sheriff  Wilson's  death  aroused  more  men 
than  his  words  had,  and  when  General  Joshua  Bean 
began  organizing  two  companies  of  militia  during  the 
weeks  after  the  murder  he  found  plenty  of  recruits. 
The  officers  were  just  getting  the  new  companies  into 
shape  for  an  expedition  against  the  bandits  who  were 
now  ravaging  most  of  the  country  south  of  the  Teha- 
chapi,  when  Murieta  and  Three-Fingered  Jack  way 
laid  General  Bean  one  night  near  San  Gabriel  Mission, 
dropped  the  noose  of  a  reata  over  his  head,  dragged 
him  from  his  horse,  and  stabbed  him  through  the  heart. 
And  the  two  companies  of  militia  did  nothing  more. 

Now,  while  posses  were  foundering  their  lathered 
horses  on  every  southland  road  and  the  flames  of  blaz 
ing  ranch  buildings  were  throwing  their  red  light  on 
the  faces  of  dead  men  almost  every  night,  a  lean  and 
wind-browned  Texan  by  the  name  of  Captain  Harry 
Love  took  a  hand  in  the  grim  game  of  man-hunting. 

He  had  gained  his  title  during  the  Mexican  War.  As 
an  express-rider  for  different  American  generals  he  had 
dodged  the  reatas  of  guerrilla  parties  who  were  lurking 
by  water-holes  and  had  outjockeyed  swarthy  horsemen 
in  wild  races  across  the  flaming  deserts  of  Sonora  until 


JOAQUIN  MURIETA  41 

he  had  come  to  know  the  science  of  their  fighting  as 
well  as  old  Padre  Jurata  himself.  And  when  he  started 
after  Murieta's  men  he  did  his  hunting  all  alone. 

One  day  he  ran  across  the  trail  of  Pedro  Gonzales, 
the  horse-thief,  and  another  lieutenant  named  Juan, 
and  followed  it  until  he  overtook  the  pair  at  the  Buena 
Ventura  rancho.  Like  most  of  his  Southwestern  breed 
he  was  a  better  man  at  action  than  at  words,  and  so 
the  story  of  the  gun-fight  which  took  place  when  he 
came  upon  them  has  never  been  told;  but  when  the 
smoke  of  the  three  pistols  cleared  away  Gonzales  was 
in  custody  and  Juan  was  riding  hard  toward  the  hills 
with  the  blood  running  over  his  face  from  a  bullet's 
furrow  along  his  scalp.  The  fugitive  found  five  others 
of  the  band  in  a  sun-baked  arroyo  that  night,  told  them 
the  news  of  the  catastrophe,  and  got  a  fresh  horse  to 
ride  back  with  them  and  rescue  their  companion. 

Captain  Love  was  well  on  his  way  to  Los  Angeles 
with  his  prisoner  when  the  sound  of  drumming  hoofs 
came  down  the  wind.  He  glanced  over  his  shoulder 
and,  on  a  hilltop  half  a  mile  behind,  saw  six  horsemen 
coming  after  him  at  a  dead  run.  If  he  had  any  doubt 
of  the  nature  of  that  party  he  lost  it  when  he  turned  his 
head  in  time  to  catch  Gonzales  waving  a  handkerchief 
to  them. 

The  elements  of  the  situation  were  simple  enough, — 
the  Texan's  jaded  mount,  the  fresh  horses  of  the  pur 
suers,  the  desperation  of  the  prisoner  for  whom  the 
gallows  was  waiting  in  Los  Angeles, — but  most  men 
would  have  wasted  some  time  in  determining  on  a  so 
lution.  Love,  who  had  learned  in  a  hard  school  the 
value  of  seconds  in  such  races  as  this,  did  not  choose  to 


42  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

part  with  any  more  of  his  handicap  than  he  had  to.  So 
he  whipped  out  his  pistol,  shot  Gonzales  through  the 
heart,  and  spurred  his  horse  down  the  dusty  road  with 
enough  start  to  distance  the  bandits  into  town. 

That  was  the  first  noteworthy  casualty  the  band  had 
suffered.  It  was  followed  by  the  capture  of  young 
Reyes  Feliz,  Rosita's  brother,  who  was  hanged  in  Los 
Angeles;  and  shortly  afterward  Murieta  led  his  whole 
company  northward  into  the  oak-dotted  hills  back  of 
San  Luis  Obispo  where  they  lost  twenty  men — among 
them  Claudio  the  expert  spy — in  a  day-long  battle  with 
a  posse  of  ranchers  whom  they  had  sought  to  ambush. 

Then  Joaquin  Murieta  rode  back  with  the  survivors  to 
Arroyo  Cantoova;  and  if  Rosita,  who  had  been  sent 
with  the  other  women  to  the  rendezvous  early  in  the 
summer,  felt  her  heart  leap  when  she  saw  her  lover 
coming,  she  soon  felt  it  sink  again,  for  he  spent  but  few 
moments  in  her  company.  Horses  and  gold  and  his 
large  plan  to  sweep  like  fire  through  California — these 
were  the  only  thoughts  he  had.  Within  a  week  he  had 
divided  the  band  into  several  parties,  two  of  which 
under  himself  and  Threte-Fingered  Jack  went  north  to 
plunder  the  placer  camps. 

There  is  hardly  an  old  town  in  the  whole  Bret  Harte 
country  that  has  not  its  stories  of  the  raiding  during  the 
winter  of  1852-53.  With  the  knowledge  which  he  and 
his  lieutenants  had  gained  at  Mokelumne  Hill  the  chief 
directed  operations,  but  -as  the  weeks  went  by  the  in 
fluence  of  Three-Fingered  Jack  grew  until  his  methods 
were  employed  in  every  robbery.  By  December  the  list 
of  wanton  murders  had  grown  so  great  that  the  State 


JOAQUIN  MURIETA  43 

of  California  offered  a  reward  of  five  thousand  dollars 
for  Joaquin  Murieta,  alive  or  dead. 

The  notices  announcing  this  reward  were  posted  in 
Stockton  one  Sunday.  The  town  was  then  the  point  of 
departure  for  the  southern  placer  district,  a  lively  place 
with  craft  of  all  kinds  coming  from  San  Francisco  to  tie 
up  at  its  levee  and  an  endless  procession  of  wagons 
traveling  out  cross  the  flat  lands  of  the  San  Joaquin 
valley  to  the  foot-hills.  Everything  was  running  wide 
open  and  the  sidewalks  were  crowded  with  men,  most 
of  whom  were  ready  to  take  a  rather  long  chance  for 
five  thousand  dollars. 

One  of  the  bills,  tacked  to  the  flag-pole  in  the  public 
square,  attracted  more  readers  than  the  others,  and 
many  a  group  gathered  about  it  to  discuss  what  show  a 
bold  man  might  have  of  earning  the  reward.  The  side 
walk  loungers  watched  these  debaters  come  and  go  until 
the  thing  was  beginning  to  be  an  old  story;  and  they 
were  almost  ready  to  turn  their  jaded  attention  else 
where  when  a  well-dressed  Mexican  came  riding  down 
the  street,  turned  his  fine  horse  into  the  square,  and 
reined  up  before  the  flag-pole.  The  audience  watched 
him  leap  from  the  saddle  and  write  something  at  the 
bottom  of  the  bill. 

When  he  had  touched  his  horse  with  the  spurs  and 
ridden  away  at  a  slow  Spanish  trot,  one  of  the  onlookers', 
more  curious — or  perhaps  he  was  less  lazy — than  his 
fellows,  sauntered  over  to  read  what  had  been  written; 
and  when  he  read  it  waved  his  hand  in  so  wild  a  gesture 
that  every  one  who  saw  him  came  running  to  the  flag 
pole.  At  the  bottom  of  the  placard  with  its  offer  of  five 


44  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

thousand  dollars'  reward  for  Joaquin  Murieta,  alive  or 
dead,  they  found  this  subscription  set  down  in  a  good 
bold  hand : 

"And  I  will  pay  ten  thousand  dollars  more.  JOAQUIN 
MURIETA.  ' ' 

Faith  in  the  State's  promise  rather  than  that  of  the 
robber  sent  many  riders  out  of  Stockton  that  day  to  scour 
the  willow  thickets  by  the  river  and  the  winding  tulle 
sloughs.  The  posses  were  speeding  back  and  forth  all 
night  long  and  the  excitement  attending  their  comings 
and  goings  lasted  into  Monday.  So  there  were  few  on 
hand  to  watch  the  departure  of  a  schooner  for  San 
Francisco  that  morning. 

She  left  the  levee  with  her  crew  of  three  and  with  two 
passengers,  miners  from  San  Andreas  who  were  taking 
out  about  twenty  thousand  dollars  in  gold-dust.  The 
crew  let  out  the  sails,  the  canvas  bellied  before  the  easy 
breeze,  the  schooner  glided  down  the  reed-lined  slough 
whose  smooth  waters  held  her  reflection  like  a  mirror. 
Flocks  of  wild  fowl  rose  before  her  as  she  came  along. 

A  rowboat  shot  out  of  the  tulles  just  ahead  of  her. 
The  helmsman  took  one  look  at  the  five  men  in  the  little 
craft  and  dropped  his  tiller  to  pick  up  a  double-barreled 
shotgun.  He  shouted  to  the  sailors;  they  sprang  for 
weapons,  and  the  two  miners  in  the  cabin  leaped  up  the 
companion  stairs,  their  pistols  in  their  hands.  Before 
the  foremost  was  half-way  up  the  flight  the  shooting  had 
begun;  he  gained  the  deck  in  time  to  see  the  body  of 
the  helmsman  drooping  over  the  swinging  tiller,  over 
hung  by  a  thin  white  cloud  of  powder-smoke.  The  small 
boat  lay  alongside  with  a  dead  man  huddled  between  the 
thwarts.  The  other  four  bandits  were  swarming  over 


JOAQUIN  MUEIETA  45 

the  rail,  firing  at  the  sailors  on  the  forward  deck  as  they 
came. 

It  was  a  short  fight  and  sharp.  When  it  ended  every 
man  in  the  ship's  company  was  lying  dead  or  mortally 
wounded  and  two  of  the  robbers  were  killed.  Murieta 
and  Three-Fingered  Jack  lingered  aboard  long  enough 
to  lower  the  gold-dust  overside  into  the  small  boat  and 
set  fire  to  the  schooner;  and  the  pillar  of  black  smoke 
drew  horsemen  from  Stockton  in  time  to  hear  the  story 
which  the  dying  men  gasped  out. 

Up  in  Sacramento  where  the  State  legislature  was 
considering  the  extermination  of  Joaquin  Murieta  some 
weeks  later  the  Stockton  incident  was  used  by  a  lean 
and  wind-browned  lobbyist  as  an  argument  for  a  com 
pany  of  rangers,  and  this  argument  by  Captain  Harry 
Love  had  much  to  do  with  the  passage  of  the  bill  author 
izing  such  a  body  under  his  leadership. 

From  Stockton  the  two  companies  of  bandits  fled 
southward  up  the  San  Joaquin  valley  and  brought  more 
than  fifty  thousand  dollars  in  gold-dust  to  Arroya  Can- 
toova.  Then  Murieta  took  seventy  men  and  rode  back 
to  make  his  final  raid  on  the  placer  camps.  Three- 
Fingered  Jack  went  by  his  side:  the  only  human  being 
whose  companionship  he  shared.  What  talks  those  two 
men  had  together  one  can  only  guess  from  the  nature  of 
the  deeds  that  followed.  No  miner  wras  too  small  game 
for  the  chief  now,  he  slit  the  throats  of  Chinamen  for 
their  garnerings  from  worked-over  tailings,  he1  tortured 
teamsters  to  learn  where  they  kept  their  wages  hidden, 
and  where  he  passed  during  the  night  men  found 
corpses  in  the  morning,  until  those  of  his  own  country 
men  who  had  befriended  him  in  other  days  turned 


46  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

against  him  and  betrayed  his  hiding-places  to  the  offi 
cers,  and  the  whole}  foot-hill  country  from  the  Tuolomme 
to  the  Feather  River  was  patrolled  by  riders  hunting 
him. 

In  Hornitas  he  sought  out  a  Mexican  who  had  noti 
fied  a  posse  of  his  presence  in  the  neighborhood,  shot 
him  down  at  broad  noonday  on  the  main  street,  and 
galloped  away  with  the  pistol-bullets  of  his  pursuers 
raising  little  spurts  of  dust  about  his  horse's  flying 
hoofs.  A  few  weeks  later  he  revisited  the  town;  killed 
a  deputy  sheriff  who  sought  to  capture  him;  and  then 
hanged  another  of  his  countrymen,  who  had  informed 
the  officer  of  his  hiding-place. 

One  spring  day  he  was  riding  alone  in  the  foot-hills 
of  Calaveras  County  when  he  came  on  a  party  of  twenty- 
five  miners  at  the  head  of  a  box  canon.  They  were  en 
camped  in  a  sort  of  amphitheater  among  the  rocks  with 
steep  walls  on  three  sides  and  only  one  outlet,  a  narrow 
Digger  trail  along  the  cliff  a  hundred  feet  above  the 
brawling  stream. 

Murieta  had  ridden  up  the  ravine  by  that  dangerous 
pathway  and  now  he  was  sitting  with  one  leg  thrown 
over  his  saddle-horn,  talking  to  the  members  of  the 
party.  They  were  on  their  way  out  from  some  winter 
diggings,  they  told  him,  and  they  had  plenty  of  dust 
with  them.  He  spoke  of  Joaquin  Murieta  and  they 
pointed  to  their  belts;  they  were  heavily  armed,  every 
man  of  them.  Why  should  they  fear  the  bandit?  He 
let  his  eyes  go  around  the  place  taking  quick  appraisal 
of  their  numerous  pack  and  saddle  animals,  their  camp 
equipment,  their  plump  buckskin  sacks — rich  booty  if 
only  he  had  a  party  of  cutthroats  at  his  heels.  But  he 


JOAQUIN  MURIETA  47 

was  alone;  the  best  he  could  do  was  to  put  a  good  face 
on  the  matter  and,  in  his  role  of  honest  traveler,  learn 
what  he  could,  to  store  it  up  for  future  reference. 

He  was  doing  this  and  getting  on  very  nicely  at  it, 
when  one  of  the  party,  who  had  gone  down  to  the  stream 
for  water  before  his  arrival,  came  climbing  up  among 
the  rocks  with  two  filled  buckets.  The  man  looked  up 
at  hearing  a  stranger 's  voice  and  Murieta  glanced  down 
at  the  same  instant.  The  eyes  of  each  proclaimed  recog 
nition.  For  the  water-carrier  was  James  Boyce,  who 
had  played  monte  over  the  table  of  the  good-looking 
young  dealer  many  a  night  in  Murphy's  Diggings. 

Boyce  dropped  the  buckets  of  water  and,  drawing  his 
pistol,  "Boys!"  he  shouted,  "That's  Murieta.  Shoot 
him!'7  Then  he  fired. 

But  Murieta  had  wheeled  his  horse  and  was  already 
spurring  it  on  a  dead  run  down  the  gulch.  The  miners 
were  lining  their  sights  on  him;  and  now  the  canon 
walls  echoed  to  the  volley  they  sent  after  him. 

He  gained  the  trail  along  the  cliff.  A  bullet  knocked 
off  his  hat  and  his  long  hair  streamed  behind  him  as  the 
horse  leaped  out  on  the  narrow  path.  The  rocks 
spurned  by  its  flying  hoofs  dropped  over  the  brink  into 
the  roaring  stream  one  hundred  feet  below.  The 
leaden  slugs  that  sang  about  the  rider's  head  chipped 
bits  from  the  sheer  wall  beside  him.  He  drew  his 
bowie-knife  and  brandished  it  as  high  as  his  arm  could 
reach. 

"I  am  Murieta,"  he  shouted,  turning  in  the  saddle 
to  look  back  at  them.  "Kill  me  if  you  can." 

The  cliff  on  one  side  was  so  close  that  he  scraped 
it  with  his  stirrup  and  on  the  other  side  the  horse's 


48  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

upflung  hoofs  hung  in  mid-air  beyond  the  brink.  The 
weapons  flamed  behind  him  at  the  canon-head.  Their 
bullets  rained  on  the  rocks  about  him  as  he  flourished 
his  knife  in  a  final  gesture  of  defiance  and  passed 
round  a  turn  of  the  trail  beyond  sight  of  his  enemies. 

I3ut  Boyce  and  his  companions  were  a  hardy  crowd, 
and  instead  of  letting  the  incident  end  here  they  broke 
camp  the  next  morning  to  follow  Murieta's  trail.  They 
traced  him  without  much  trouble  down  the  canon, 
over  a  ridge  and  into  another  steep-walled  gulch,  where 
they  came  on  tracks  of  fourteen  others  of  the  band. 
From  this  point  the  robbers  had  struck  off  toward  the 
high  country. 

All  that  day  the  miners  climbed  the  tall  ridges  where 
the  sugar-pines  stood  like  enormous  pillars  in  the  vast 
cathedral  of  the  out  of  doors,  until  night  found  them 
in  the  midst  of  the  forest  right  under  the  bare  granite 
peaks.  Here  they  made  camp,  and  when  the  cold 
breath  of  the  snow-fields  came  down  upon  them  they 
kindled  a  great  fire.  They  lounged  about  the  flaming 
logs  smoking  their  pipes  and  warming  their  wearied 
limbs.  Beyond  the  circle  of  fire-light  the  enshadowed 
woods  gave  forth  no  sound  to  tell  them  that  fifteen  men 
were  crawling  through  those  black  aisles  among  the 
trees  like  fifteen  swarthy  snakes. 

The  click  of  a  pistol-hammer  coming  to  full  cock 
brought  one  of  the  lounging  miners  to  his  feet.  He 
fell  forward  in  the  instant  of  his  rising,  and  the  woods 
gave  "back  a  hundred  crashing  echoes  to  the  volley  which 
the  bandits  fired.  Their  aim  was  so  true — for  they 
had  stolen  close  in  and  taken  good  time  to  settle  them 
selves  before  cocking  their  weapons — that  when  the 


JOAQUIN  MURIETA  49 

echoes  died  away  fifteen  men  were  lying  dead  and 
dying  in  the  red  light  of  that  fire. 

The  others  were  springing  for  their  pistols,  for  nearly 
every  one  of  the  miners  had  laid  aside  his  belt  to  ease 
himself,  but  before  one  of  them  had  pulled  a  trigger 
there  came  the  crackling  of  a  second  fusillade  and 
seven  fell.  Then  Boyce  and  two  of  his  companions 
leaped  outside  that  fatal  circle  of  radiance  in  time  to 
save  themselves.  As  they  were  creeping  away  in  the 
darkness  they  saw  Joaquin  Murieta  and  Three-Fingered 
Jack  rush  into  the  camp  waving  their  bowie-knives  ex 
ultantly  above  their  heads,  and  for  a  long  time  after 
ward  they  heard  the  band  whooping  like  Apaches  while 
they  killed  the  wounded. 

Murieta  and  his  company  rode  away  from  this  mas 
sacre  with  thirty  thousand  dollars  in  gold-dust  and 
about  forty  horses  as  their  loot.  But  the  story  which 
Boyce  and  the  other  two  survivors  told  turned  the 
mining  towns  into  armed  camps;  and  now  Sheriff 
Charles  Ellis  of  Calaveras  County  started  so  fierce  a 
warfare  against  the  bandits  that  they  had  to  flee  the 
country. 

Y^hen  Murieta  rode  back  to  Arroyo  Cantoova  that 
spring,  a  closely  hunted  fugitive,  he  found  that  Rosita 
had  deserted  him  for  an  American  settler  by  the  name 
of  Baker.  Even  at  this  critical  period  when  he  was 
beginning  actual  preparations  for  his  enormous  raid 
he  took  the  time  to  track  her  to  a  cabin  among  the 
hills  nearly  a  hundred  miles  from  the  rendezvous.  He 
shot  her  down  and  set  fire  to  the  place,  but  perhaps 
the  very  frenzy  of  his  anger  blinded  him  or  perhaps  he 
rushed  away  in  horror  of  his  own  deed,  for  she  survived 


50  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

her  wounds,  the  only  one  of  his  victims  who  lived  when 
he  had  the  time  to  kill,  and  showed  the  scars  to  officers 
years  afterward. 

The  boy  who  had  taken  her  northward  so  short  a 
time  ago — for  his  years  were  barely  a  man's  years 
yet — rode  back  to  Arroyo  Cantoova  and  the  one  thing 
he  had  in  life — his  plan. 


Captain  Harry  Love  and  his  company  of  twenty 
rangers  rode  down  the  King's  Highway  into  the  little 
town  of  San  Juan.  In  the  plaza,  where  the  California 
poppies  bloom  to-day  before  the  cloistered  arches  of 
the  mission  as  they  bloomed  on  that  July  afternoon  in 
1853,  the  dusty  horsemen  drew  rein  outside  the  old 
adobe  inn.  Their  captain  dismounted  and  went  inside 
and  while  he  stayed  the  others  lounged  in  their  deep 
stock  saddles  smoking  cigarettes  or  eased  the  cinches  to 
rest  their  sweaty  horses ;  a  sunburned  troop  and  silent  as 
men  who  know  they  have  large  work  ahead  of  them. 

An  hour  passed  and  Captain  Love  came  out,  to  swing 
into  his  saddle  and  ride  off  without  a  word  with  the 
twenty  behind  him.  They  followed  the  King's  High 
way  where  it  looped  upward  along  the  flanks  of  San 
Juan  Hill,  came  down  the  other  side  into  the  Salinas 
valley — the  Salinas  plains,  men  called  it  then — and 
made  camp  near  the  river. 

That  night  Captain  Love  told  them  what  he  had 
learned  in  the  Plaza  Inn  at  San  Juan  where  Joaquin 
Murieta  had  often  come  to  confer  with  friendly  Spanish 
Calif ornians  in  other  days.  One  of  these  former  friends 
had  betrayed  to  him  the  rendezvous  at  Arroyo  Cantoova 


JOAQUIN  MURIETA  51 

and  told  him  how  to  reach  the  place  by  a  pass  across 
the  Coast  Range  near  Paso  Robles. 

The  ranger  company  rode  on  southward  day  after 
day  until  the  wind-swept  plain  grew  narrower  between 
oak-dotted  hills;  then  turned  eastward  to  climb  among 
a  tangle  of  grassy  mountains  scorched  by  the  sun 
to  the  color  of  a  lion's  coat.  They  crossed  the  divide 
and  descended  into  the  upper  valley  of  the  San  Joa- 
quin.  And  one  morning,  when  they  were  following 
the  trail  of  several  horsemen,  they  saw  the  thin  smoke 
of  a  little  camp-fire  rising  from  the  ravine-bed  ahead 
of  them.  Captain  Love  deployed  his  company  to  close 
in  on  the  place  from  three  sides,  and  sent  one  man 
to  the  rear  with  orders  to  hang  back  until  the  others 
had  all  ridden  in.  The  man  was  William  Byrnes  who 
had  known  Joaquin  Murieta  well  in  the  days  before  that 
lynching  at  Murphy's  Diggings. 

Murieta  was  washing  his  thoroughbred  mare  in  the 
bed  of  the  ravine.  She  stood,  without  halter  or  tie-rope, 
as  docile  as  a  dog  while  he  laved  her  fine  limbs  with 
a  dampened  cloth.  His  saddle  lay  about  ten  or  fifteen 
yards  away  with  his  pistols  in  the  holsters  beside  the 
horn.  Four  or  five  bandits  were  cooking  their  break 
fast  over  the  fire;  and  Three-Fingered  Jack  lay  at  a 
little  distance,  sprawled  full-length  in  the  morning  sun 
shine  like  a  basking  rattlesnake.  The  mare  raised  her 
head;  her  ears  went  forward,  and  Murieta  glanced  up 
in  time  to  see  the  rangers  riding  in  across  the  pale 
saffron  ridges  from  three  sides. 

They  came  at  a  dead  run.     Before  he  could  reach 


52  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

his  saddle  one  of  the  company  had  pulled  up  between 
him  and  the  weapons.  Captain  Love  was  leaning  from 
his  horse  questioning  Three-Fingered  Jack.  Murieta 
took  another  step  toward  his  weapons;  the  ranger 
stopped  him  with  a  gesture ;  he  halted,  glanced  at  Cap 
tain  Love,  and  scowled. 

"If  you  have  any  questions  to  ask,"  he  cried,  "I  am 
leader  of  this  party.  Talk  to  me." 

"I  11  talk  to  whom  I  please,"  Love  answered,  and 
just  then  William  Byrnes  came  riding  into  sight. 

Murieta  took  one  look  at  the  man  whom  he  had 
known  in  the  days  when  he  walked  unfeared  among  his 
fellows  and  let  his  eyes  go  around  the  circle  of  riders ; 
he  saw  Three-Fingered  Jack  watching  him  narrowly. 
His  hand  stole  up  along  the  mare's  glossy  neck.  Her 
ears  moved  back  and  forth  as  she  stood  there  biding 
some  word  from  him. 

Then,  "Vamos,  amigos!"  he  shouted,  and  sprang  on 
the  mare's  back.  He  leaned  far  forward  as  she  leaped 
down  the  bed  of  the  ravine. 

Three-Fingered  Jack  took  advantage  of  the  moment 
of  confusion  that  followed  to  mount  his  own  horse,  and 
half  the  rangers  followed  him  across  the  grass  ridge 
firing  as  they  went.  He  fought  a  running  battle  with 
them  for  five  miles  before  they  shot  him  down. 

Murieta  lay  along  the  mare's  back  like  an  Indian. 
The  hoofs  of  the  pursuing  company  thundered  behind 
him  in  the  ravine-bed;  their  bullets  spattered  on  the 
rocks  about  him.  Before  him  the  land  broke  in  a 
twenty-foot  precipice.  He  called  into  the  mare's  ear 
and  she  headed  bravely  for  the  cliff,  leaped  out  into 
space,  and  turned  a  complete  somersault  at  the  bottom. 


JOAQUIN  MURIETA  53 

He  rolled  among  the  rocks  beside  her,  lay  for  a  moment 
stunned,  then  rose  and  found  her  waiting  for  him  where 
she  had  gained  her  feet.  He  sprang  to  her  back  again 
and  urged  her  on. 

Several  of  the  rangers  were  pressing  their  horses 
along  the  hillside  to  gain  the  bed  of  the  ravine  by  that 
roundabout  route ;  one  who  had  ridden  full-tilt  over  the 
cliff  lay  stunned  beside  his  injured  animal;  and  three 
or  four  others  had  dismounted.  These  lined  their  sights 
on  the  fleeing  mare,  and  now  her  legs  went  from  under 
her;  she  crashed  down  with  the  blood  gushing  from 
her  nostrils. 

The  rangers  rested  their  rifles  for  more  careful  aim 
as  the  rider  started  to  flee  on  foot.  The  volley  raised 
rattling  echoes  in  the  hills.  He  took  four  or  five  strides 
and  then,  halting,  faced  about.  He  raised  one  hand. 

"No  more,"  he  called.     "Your  work  is  done." 

And  as  they  slowly  came  toward  him,  their  rifles 
ready  to  fly  to  their  shoulders  at  the  first  suspicious 
movement,  Joaquin  Murieta  swayed  slightly  and  sank 
slowly  into  a  heap  near  the  dead  mare.  The  breath  was 
gone  from  his  body  when  they  reached  it. 


TOMBSTONE 

MORE  than  forty  years  ago  a  raw  young  mining 
camp  down  in  southeastern  Arizona  was  prepar 
ing  to  assume  the  functions  of  a  duly  organized  munici 
pality,  and  its  population — at  that  period  nearly  every 
one  in  the  place  was  a  male  of  voting  age — was  consider 
ing  the  important  question  of  a  name. 

The  camp  stood  out  against  the  sky-line  at  the  crest 
of  a  ridge  in  the  foot-hills  of  the  Mule  Mountains,  not 
far  from  the  Mexican  boundary.  For  the  most  part 
it  consisted  of  tents;  but  there  were  a  few  adobe  build 
ings  and  some  marvelous  creations  from  goods-boxes  and 
tin  cans.  Pacing  one  end  of  its  single  brief  street 
you  looked  out  upon  a  dump  of  high-grade  silver  ore, 
and  if  you  turned  the  other  way  you  surveyed  a  sprout 
ing  little  graveyard  hard  by  a  large  corral.  From  al 
most  any  point  you  had  a  good  view  of  the  Dragoon 
mountains  across  a  wide  stretch  of  mesquite-covered 
lowlands,  and  at  almost  any  hour  of  the  day  you  were 
likely  to  see  the  smoke  of  at  least  one  Apache  signal- 
fire  rising  from  those  frowning  granite  ramparts. 

The  men  in  the  camp  were,  nearly  all  of  them,  old- 
timers  in  the  West:  miners  from  the  Comstock  lode 
whose  boom  was  then  on  the  wane,  teamsters  who  had 
been  freighting  all  over  the  blazing  deserts  of  the  South 
west,  investors  and  merchants  from  Tucson,  buffalo- 
hunters  from  western  Kansas,  Texas,  and  Colorado, 

54 


TOMBSTONE  55 

gamblers  from  Dodge  City,  El  Paso,  and  Santa  Fe, 
Indian-fighters,  cattle-rustlers,  professional  claim- 
jumpers,  and  some  gentle-voiced  desperadoes  of  the 
real  breed,  equally  willing  to  slay  from  behind  or  take 
a  long  chance  in  front,  according  to  the  way  the  play 
came  up.  Few  of  these  men  wore  coats ;  a  great  many  of 
them  carried  single-action  revolvers  in  holsters  beside 
the  thigh;  the  old-fashioned  cattleman's  boot  was  the 
predominant  foot-gear;  and,  excepting  among  the  faro- 
dealers,  there  was  a  rather  general  carelessness  in 
sartorial  matters.  Nicknames  were  even  more  common 
than  surnames,  and  it  was  bad  form — sometimes  danger 
ously  so — to  ask  a  man  about  his  antecedents  until  he 
had  volunteered  some  information  on  that  point. 

In  such  a  crowd  it  is  easy  to  see  there  would  be 
many  ideas  on  any  given  subject,  and  the  question  of 
the  new  town's  name  had  evoked  a  multitude  of  sug 
gestions.  Amusements  were  still  few;  the  purveyors  of 
hectic  pleasure  had  thus  far  succeeded  in  bringing  only 
one  piano  and  a  half-dozen  dance-hall  girls — all  decid 
edly  the  worse  for  wear — into  the  camp ;  and  either  faro 
or  whisky  has  its  limitations  as  a  steady  means  of  re 
laxation.  So  it  came  about  that  any  advocate  could 
usually  find  an  audience  to  harken  to  his  arguments 
for  his  pet  selection. 

At  intervals  when  they  were  not  toiling  at  assessment 
work  in  the  shafts  which  pocked  the  hillside  or  dodg 
ing  Apaches  in  the  outlying  country,  the  citizens  found 
diversion  in  discussing  the  ideas  thus  submitted.  And 
the  merits  of  these  propositions  were  debated  by  groups 
in  the  brief  street,  by  players  seated  before  the  tables 
in  the  gambling-halls,  by  members  of  the  never-absent 


56  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

lines  before  the  bars,  and  by  dust-mantled  travelers 
within  the  Concord  stages  which  came  tossing  over  the 
weary  road  from  Tucson. 

Gradually  public  opinion  began  to  crystallize.  One 
name  was  spoken  more  often  as  the  days  went  by.  Un 
til  it  became  evident  that  the  great  majority  favored 
it,  and  it  was  chosen. 

They  called  the  town  Tombstone  and  placed  one  more 
tradition  on  the  Western  map. 

The  old-timers  always  showed  a  very  fine  sense  of  the 
fitness  of  things  when  they  christened  a  river,  mountain 
range,  or  town.  If  one  were  to  devote  his  time  to 
studying  the  map  of  our  country  west  of  the  Mississippi 
River  and  resusticating  the  tales  whose  titles  are  printed 
thereupon,  he  could  produce  a  large  volume  of  marvel 
ous  stories.  But  the  entire  compilation  would  contain 
nothing  more  characteristic  of  the  days  when  men  car 
ried  rifles  to  protect  their  lives  than  the  story  of  that 
name — Tombstone. 

It  deals  with  a  period  when  southeastern  Arizona  was 
Apache-land.  Geronimo,  Victorio,  and  Nachez  were 
constantly  leading  their  naked  warriors  into  the  moun 
tain  ranges  which  rise  from  those  mesquite-covered 
plains,  to  lurk  among  the  rocks  watching  the  lower 
country^for  travelers  and  when  these  came  to  descend 
upon  them  for  the  sake  of  loot  and  the  love  of  murder. 
A  few  bold  cattlemen,  like  John  Slaughter  and  Peter 
Kitchen,  had  established  ranches  in  this  region;  these 
held  their  homes  by  constant  vigilance  and  force  of  arms. 
Escorts  of  soldiers  frequently  guarded  the  stages  on 
their  way  to  and  from  Tucson;  and  there  was  hardly 


TOMBSTONE  57 

a  month  in  the  year  when  driver,  guard,  and  passengers 
did  not  make  a  running  fight  of  it  somewhere  along 
this  portion  of  the  route. 

Such  were  conditions  during  the  summer  of  1877 
when  the  tale  begins  in  the  dry  wash  which  comes  down 
from  the  Tombstone  hills  into  the  valley  of  the  San 
Pedro,  near  where  the  hamlet  of  Fairbank  stands  to 
day. 

Fragments  of  horn  silver  lay  scattered  among  the 
cactus  and  dagger-plants  in  the  bed  of  the  dry  wash. 
There  was  a  point  where  the  stony  slope  above  the 
bank  was  strewn  with  them.  A  little  farther  up,  an 
outcropping  of  high-grade  ore  showed  plainly  in  the 
hard  white  sunshine.  The  flank  of  the  hill  was  leak 
ing  precious  metal  like  a  rotting  treasure-chest. 

A  solitary  Apache  stood  on  a  mesa  ten  miles  away. 
He  had  cut  a  fresh  trail  down  in  the  valley  at  dawn, 
and  had  dogged  it  reading  every  minute  sign — a  dis 
placed  rock,  a  broken  twig,  a  smudge  of  disturbed 
earth — until  he  had  the  fulness  of  its  meaning:  two 
prospectors  leading  a  pack-mule,  both  men  armed  and 
keeping  sharp  lookout  against  attack.  Then  he  had 
climbed  to  this  remote  vantage-point  and  caught  sight 
of  them  as  they  turned  from  the  river-bottom  up  the 
wash.  They  were  traveling  straight  toward  that  out 
cropping. 

The  Apache  stood  at  the  edge  of  the  mesa  facing 
the  newly  risen  sun,  a  savage  vision  in  a  savage  land. 
His  narrow  turban,  shred  of  loin-cloth,  and  knee-high 
moccasins  merely  accentuated  his  nakedness;  they 
held  no  more  suggestion  of  clothing  than  his  mass  of 


58  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

rusty  black  hair  and  the  ugly  smears  of  paint  across 
his  cheeks.  A  tiny  fire  beside  him  sent  a  tenuous  smoke 
column  into  the  glaring  sky. 

He  kept  his  malignant  little  eyes  on  a  notch  in  the 
Dragoon  Mountains  twenty  miles  away,  scowling  against 
the  sun's  bright  flood.  Across  the  far-flung  interval 
of  glowing  mesas  and  dark  mesquite  flats  the  stark 
granite  ramparts  frowned  back  at  him.  And  now  a 
hair-line  of  pallid  smoke  twined  upward  from  the 
point  he  watched. 

He  sank  down,  crouching  beside  his  fire.  He  swept 
his  hand  over  it  sprinkling  bits  of  powdered  resin  into 
the  wisp  of  flame.  The  smoke  turned  black. 

He  waited  for  some  moments,  scanning  the  rising 
fumes,  then  swerved  his  lean  brown  torso  toward  a 
mesquite  bush.  He  stripped  the  leaves  from  a  twig  and 
scattered  them  upon  the  blaze.  A  white  puff  climbed 
into  the  sky. 

From  time  to  time  he  moved,  now  dropping  on  his 
belly  to  blow  the  coals,  now  feeding  them  with  resin, 
now  with  leaves.  The  slender  column  crawled  on  upward 
taking  alternate  complexion,  white  and  black. 

Where  the  bare  summits  of  the  Dragoon  range  broke 
into  a  multitude  of  ragged  pinnacles  against  the  east 
ern  horizon,  another  swarthy  warrior  stood,  remote  as 
a  roosting  eagle  on  the  heights.  Beneath  his  feet — the 
drop  was  so  sheer  that  he  could  have  kicked  a  pebble  to 
the  bottom  without  its  touching  the  face  of  the  cliff 
in  its  fall — the  shadows  of  the  mountain  lay  black  on 
the  mesquite  flat.  He  gazed  across  that  wide  plain  and 
the  mesas  climbing  heavenward  beyond  it  in  a  series 
of  glowing  steps.  His  face  assumed  a  peculiar  intent- 


TOMBSTONE  59 

ness  as  he  watched  the  distant  smoke  column;  it  was 
the  intentness  of  a  man  who  is  reading  under  difficulties. 
In  dot  and  dash  he  spelled  it  as  it  rose — the  tidings  of 
those  two  prospectors  who  traveled  up  the  wash. 

While  the  last  puff  was  fading  away  he  glided  down 
from  pinnacle  to  narrow  shelf,  from  shelf  to  cliff,  and 
made  his  way  toward  the  rocks  below  to  tell  the  news 
to  the  rest  of  his  band. 

Their  camp  lay  at  the  head  of  a  steep  gorge.  Sev 
eral  low  wickiups  had  been  fashioned  by  binding  the 
tops  of  bushes  together  and  throwing  skins  or  tattered 
blankets  over  the  arched  stems.  Offal  and  carrion  were 
strewn  all  about  the  place;  it  swarmed  with  flies. 
Nesting  vultures  would  have  built  more  carefully  and 
been  fully  as  fastidious.  When  the  warrior  reached 
the  spot  the  rocks  became  alive  with  naked  forms;  they 
appeared  from  all  sides  as  suddenly  and  silently  as 
quail. 

He  told  the  tidings  to  the  men.  An  unclean,  vermin- 
ridden  group,  they  squatted  around  him  while  he  re 
peated  the  smoke  message,  word  for  word.  There  was 
no  particular  show  of  enthusiasm  among  them,  no  sign 
of  haste.  They  began  to  prepare  for  this  business  as 
other  men  begin  getting  ready  for  a  day's  work,  when 
they  see  good  wages  ahead  of  them  and  the  task  is  very 
much  to  their  taste.  Prospectors  were  becoming  -an 
old  story  in  that  summer  of  1877;  two  of  them  meant 
good  pickings — bacon,  coffee,  sugar,  and  firearms;  and 
there  was  the  fun  of  killing  with  the  chance  for  torture 
thrown  in. 

Some  of  the  band  departed  leisurely  to  catch  the 
ponies.  The  victims  would  be  busy  for  a  long  time  in- 


60  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

the  wash.  They  would  not  travel  far  to  make  their 
camp.  And  wherever  they  went  they  must  leave  tracks. 
The  day  was  far  advanced  when  the  party  rode  forth 
upon  the  flat,  their  dirty  turbans  bobbing  up  and  down 
above  the  mesquite  bushes  as  they  came  along. 

Several  of  them  carried  lances;  there  was  a  sprin 
kling  of  bows  and  arrows;  a  number  bore  rifles  across 
their  saddles,  wearing  the  cartridge-belts  athwart  their 
naked  bodies.  All  of  them  moved  their  thin  brown 
legs  ceaselessly;  their  moccasined  shanks  kept  up  a  con 
stant  drumming  against  the  ponies'  sides. 

The  afternoon  was  old  when  they  reached  the  dry 
wash.  They  left  two  or  three  of  their  number  be 
hind  in  charge  of  the  ponies.  The  others  came  on  afoot. 
Two  leaders  went  well  in  advance,  one  of  them  on 
each  bank,  creeping  from  rock  to  tufted  yucca  and 
from  yucca  to  mesquite  clump,  watching  the  sun-flayed 
land  before  them  for  some  sign  of  their  game.  A 
squad  of  trackers  slipped  in  and  out  among  the  dagger- 
plants  and  boulders  in  the  bottom  of  the  gulch. 

One  of  the  trackers  held  up  his  hand  and  moved  it 
swiftly.  To  the  signal  the  others  gathered  about  him. 
He  pointed  to  the  outcropping  of  high-grade  ore.  They 
saw  the  traces  left  by  a  prospector's  pick.  For  some 
minutes  their  voices  mingled  in  low  gutturals.  Then 
they  scattered  to  pick  up  the  trail,  found  it,  and  re 
sumed  their  progress  down  the  arroyo. 

Evening  came  on  them  when  they  reached  the  river- 
bottom;  and  with  the  deepening  shadows,  fear.  Night 
with  the  Apache  was  the  time  of  the  dead.  They  made 
their  camp.  But  when  the  sun  was  coloring  the  east- 


TOMBSTONE  61 

ern  sky  the  next  morning  they  were  crawling  through 
the  bear-grass  on  the  first  low  mesa  above  the  stream, 
silent  as  snakes  about  to  strike. 

The  prospectors  awoke  with  the  growing  light.  They 
crept  forth  from  their  blankets.  Two  or  three  rifles 
cracked.  And  then  the  stillness  came  again. 

The  Apaches  stripped  the  clothing  from  the  dead 
men  and  left  them  to  the  Arizona  sun.  They  took 
away  with  them  what  loot  they  found.  They  never 
noticed  the  little  heap  of  specimens  from  the  outcrop 
ping.  Or  if  they  noticed  it  they  thought  it  of  no  im 
portance.  A  few  handfuls  of  rock  fragments  meant 
nothing  to  them.  And  so  the  ore  remained  there  near 
the  bodies  of  the  prospectors. 

The  old-timers  go  on  to  tell  how  Jim  Shea  came  rid 
ing  down  the  dry  wash  one  day  late  in  the  summer  with 
his  rifle  across  his  saddle-horn  and  a  little  troop  of  grim 
horsemen  about  him.  Of  that  incident  few  details  re 
main  in  the  verbal  chronicle  which  has  come  down 
through  four  decades.  It  is  like  a  picture  whose  back 
ground  has  been  blurred  by  age. 

Somewhere  ahead  of  these  dusty,  sunburned  riders  a 
band  of  Apaches  were  urging  their  wearied  ponies  on 
ward  under  the  hot  sun.  They  herded  a  bunch  of  stolen 
horses  before  them  as  they  fled. 

The  chase  had  begun  with  the  beginning  of  the  day, 
at  Dragoon  Pass.  What  bloodshed  had  preceded  it  is 
not  known.  But  Shea  and  his  companions  were  follow 
ing  a  hot  trail,  eager  for  reprisals,  cautious  against  am 
bush.  As  they  came  on  down  the  wash  the  leader 
Scanned  the  stony  bed  reading  the  freshening  signs  left 


•62  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

by  the  fugitives;  while  two  who  rode  on  either  side  of 
him  watched  every  rock  and  shrub  and  gully  which 
might  give  cover  to  lurking  enemies. 

Now,  as  they  clattered  along  the  arroyo's  bed,  Shea 
suddenly  drew  rein.  Leaning  far  to  one  side  and  low, 
after  the  lithe  fashion  of  the  cow-boy,  he  swept  his 
hand  earthward,  picked  up  a  little  fragment  of  dark 
rock,  straightened  his  body  in  the  saddle  once  more, 
and,  glancing  sharply  at  the  bit  of  ore,  dropped  it  into 
his  pocket.  He  repeated  the  movement  two  or  three 
times  in  the  next  hundred  yards. 

Chasing  Apaches — or  being  chased  by  them — was  al 
most  as  much  a  part  of  life's  routine  in  those  days  as 
sleeping  without  sheets.  And  no  one  remembers  how 
this  particular  affair  ended.  But  Jim  Shea  kept  those 
bits  of  silver  ore. 

Later  he  showed  them  to  an  assayer  somewhere  up  on 
the  Gila  and  learned  their  richness.  Then  he  determined 
to  go  back  and  locate  the  ledge  from  which  the  elements 
had  carried  them  away.  But  that  project  demanded 
a  substantial  grubstake,  and  other  matters  of  moment 
were  taking  his  attention  at  the  time.  He  postponed 
the  expedition  until  it  was  too  late. 

In  Tucson  they  tell  of  a  prospector  by  the  name  of 
Lewis  who  wandered  into  those  foot-hills  during  that 
year,  found  some  high-grade  float,  and  traced  it  to  a 
larger  outcropping  than  the  one  down  by  the  dry  wash. 
But  he  had  hardly  made  the  marvelous  discovery  when 
he  caught  sight  of  a  turbaned  head  above  a  rocky  ridge 
about  fifty  yards  away.  He  abandoned  his  search  to 
seek  the  nearest  cover.  By  the  time  he  had  gained  the 
shelter  a  dozen  Apaches  were  firing  at  him. 


TOMBSTONE  63 

He  made  a  good  fight  of  it  with  his  rifle,  and  the 
luck  which  had  caused  him  to  look  up  before  the  savages 
had  their  sights  trained  on  him  had  put  a  wide  space  of 
open  ground  about  his  natural  fort.  No  Apache  ever 
relished  taking  chances,  and  Lewis  was  able  to  hold 
the  band  off  until  darkness  came.  Then  he  crept  forth 
and  wormed  his  way  through  the  gullies  to  the  San 
Pedro  Valley.  Dawn  found  him  miles  from  the  spot. 

fie  came  back  to  Tucson  with  his  specimens.  Mar 
cus  Katz  and  A.  M.  Franklin,  who  were  working  for 
the  wholesale  firm  of  L.  M.  Jacobs  &  Co.,  heard  his  story, 
saw  the  ore,  and  grubstaked  him  for  another  trip. 

But  when  he  reached  the  foot-hills  of  the  Mule 
Mountains  Lewis  found  that  the  long  afternoon  of  bat 
tle  and  the  ensuing  night  of  flight  had  left  him  utterly 
at  sea  as  to  the  location  of  that  large  ledge.  He  had 
to  begin  his  hunt  all  over  again.  He  used  up  his  grub 
stake,  got  a  second  from  his  backers,  and  subsequently 
a  third. 

And  now  while  Lewis  was  combing  down  the  gullies 
between  those  broken  ridges  for  the  ore  body — he  slew 
himself  from  disappointment  later  on — and  while  Jim 
Shea  was  meditating  an  expedition  after  the  riches  of 
which  he  had  got  trace  down  in  the  dry  wash,  Ed  Schief- 
flin  came  to  the  Bruncknow  house  to  embark  on  the 
adventure  which  was  to  give  the  town  of  Tombstone  its 
name. 

The  Bronco  house,  men  call  it  now,  but  Bruncknow 
was  the  man  who  built  it  and  the  new  term  is  a  cor 
ruption.  Its  ruins  still  stand  on  the  side-hill  a  few 
miles  from  the  dry  wash,  a  rifle-shot  or  so  from  the 
spot  where  the  two  prospectors  met  their  deaths.  In 


64  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

those  days  it  was  a  lonely  outpost  of  the  white  man  in 
the  Apache's  land.  The  summer  of  1877  was  drawing 
to  a  close,  its  showers  were  already  a  distant  memory, 
and  all  southeastern  Arizona  was  glowing  under  the 
white-hot  sun-rays  when  Schiefflin  rode  his  mule  up 
from  the  San  Pedro  to  seek  the  protection  of  its  thick 
adobe  walls. 

The  flat  lands  of  the  valley  stretched  away  and  away 
behind  him  to  the  foot  of  the  Huachucas  in  the  west. 
They  unfolded  their  long  reaches  to  the  southward  un 
til  they  melted  into  the  hot  sky  between  spectral  moun 
tain  ranges  down  in  Mexico.  He  came  up  out  of  that 
wide  landscape,  a  tall  wild  figure,  lonesome  as  the  set 
ting  sun. 

His  long  beard  and  the  steady  patience  in  his  eyes — 
the  patience  which  comes  to  the  prospector  during  his 
solitary  wanderings  in  search  of  rich  ore — gave  him 
the  appearance  of  a  man  past  middle  age  although  he 
had  not  seen  his  thirtieth  year.  His  curling  hair  reached 
his  broad  shoulders.  Wind  and  sun  had  tanned 
his  features  so  deeply  that  his  blue  eyes  stood  out 
in  strange  contrast  to  the  dark  skin.  His  garments 
were  sadly  torn,  and  he  had  patched  them  in  many 
places  with  buckskin.  Such  men  still  come  and  go  in 
the  remote  places  among  the  mountain  ranges  and  des 
erts  of  the  West.  They  were  almost  the  first  to  pen 
etrate  the  wilderness  and  they  will  roam  over  it  so  long 
as  any  patch  of  it  remains  unfenced. 

Schiefflin  had  left  his  father's  house  in  Oregon  ten 
years  before.  He  searched  the  Cceur  d'Alenes  for 
riches,  and,  finding  none,  struck  out  from  Idaho  for 
Nevada.  There  he  remained  through  two  blazing  sum- 


TOMBSTONE  65 

mers  traveling  afoot  from  the  sage-brush  hills  in  the 
north  across  the  silent  deserts  east  of  Death  Valley. 
He  wandered  on  to  Colorado,  where  he  toiled  in  the 
new  mining  camps  between  prospecting  trips  into  the 
great  plateaus  along  the  western  slope  of  the  Rockies. 
From  Colorado  he  went  southward  into  New  Mexico; 
thence  westward  to  Arizona.  He  accompanied  a  troop 
of  cavalry  from  Prescott  down  to  the  foot  of  the  Hua- 
chucas  where  they  established  a  new  post.  During 
the  last  leg  of  that  journey  he  saw  these  foot-hills  of 
the  Mule  Mountains  in  passing,  and  in  spite  of  warn 
ings  from  the  soldiers,  he  was  now  returning  to  pros 
pect  the  district. 

He  had  spent  some  days  at  the  Herrick  ranch  down 
in  the  valley,  and  the  men  about  the  place  had  strongly 
advised  him  against  traveling  into  the  hills.  They 
cited  various  gruesome  examples  of  the  fate  which  over 
took  solitary  wanderers  in  this  savage  land.  They 
might  as  well  have  saved  their  breath;  Schiefflin  had 
seen  some  mineral  stains  on  a  rock  outcropping  when 
he  passed  through  the  country  with  the  cavalry  earlier 
in  the  season. 

So  now  he  came  on  toward  the  Bruncknow  house, 
where  he  could  make  his  camp  closer  to  the  hills  upon 
whose  exploration  his  mind  was  set. 

There  were  several  men  lounging  about  the  adobe 
when  he  reached  it.  Even  in  those  days,  when  the  most 
peaceful  border-dweller  carried  his  rifle  almost  every 
where  except  to  his  meals  and  was  as  likely  as  not  to 
have  slain  one  or  two  fellow-creatures, — days  when  the 
leading  citizens  of  that  isolated  region  presented  a  sin 
ister  front  with  their  long-barreled  revolvers  slung 


66  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

beside  their  thighs, — the  members  of  the  group  showed 
up  hard. 

A  lean  and  seasoned  crew,  dust-stained  from  many  a 
wild  ride,  burned  by  the  border  sun,  they  watched  the 
new-comer  with  eyes  half-curtained,  like  the  eyes  of 
peering  eagles,  by  straight  lids.  They  welcomed  him 
with  a  few  terse  questions  as  to  where  he  had  come 
from  and  what  the  troops  were  doing  over  at  the  new 
post.  Of  themselves  they  said  nothing  nor  offered  any 
information  of  their  business  in  this  lonely  spot. 

But  when  Schiefflin  had  made  his  camp  close  to  the 
shelter  of  those  thick  adobe  walls  he  learned  more  of 
his  hosts.  There  was  a  mine  hard  by,  at  least  it  went 
by  the  name  of  a  mine,  and  it  was  a  sort  of  common 
understanding  that  the  owners  were  doing  assessment 
work.  The  fragments  on  the  dump,  however,  were 
only  country  rock.  In  later  years  gorgeous  tales  of 
rich  ore  at  the  bottom  of  the  shallow  shaft  resulted  in 
a  series  of  claim-jumpings  which  in  their  turn  netted 
no  less  than  eleven  murders,  but  the  slayers  only  wasted 
their  powder,  for  the  ground  here  never  yielded  any 
thing  more  interesting  than  dead  men's  bones.  And 
at  the  time  when  Schiefflin  was  abiding  at  the  Brunck- 
now  house  the  inmates  were  letting  their  mining  tools 
rust,  the  while  they  kept  their  firearms  well  oiled. 

For  the  mine  was  nothing  more  nor  less  than  a  blind, 
and  the  ado-be  was  simply  a  rendezvous  for  Mexican 
smugglers. 

In  that  era,  when  a  man  practised  pistol-shooting 
from  the  hip, — as  a  man  practises  his  morning  calis 
thenics  in  this  peaceful  age,  for  the  sake  of  his  body's 
health, — the  written  statutes  were  one  thing  and  local 


TOMBSTONE  67 

conceptions  of  proper  conduct  another.  Here,  where 
the  San  Pedro  valley  came  straight  northward  across 
the  boundary,  affording  a  good  route  for  pack-trains, 
smuggling  American  wares  into  the  southern  republic 
was  nearly  a  recognized  industry.  As  long  as  a  man 
could  bring  his  contraband  to  market  past  marauding 
Apaches  and  the  bands  of  renegade  whites  who  had 
drifted  to  the  border,  he  was  entitled  to  the  profit  he 
made — and  no  questions  asked. 

So  the  men  at  the  Bruncknow  house  accepted  Schief- 
flin's  presence  without  any  fear  of  ill  consequences. 
Had  their  calling  been  more  stealthy  they  would  not 
have  worried  about  him ;  prospectors  went  unquestioned 
among  all  sorts  of  law  breakers  then,  owning  something 
of  the  same  immunity  which  simple-minded  persons 
always  got  from  the  Indians.  He  came  in  at  evening 
and  rolled  up  in  his  blankets  after  cooking  his  supper ; 
and  in  the  morning  he  went  forth  again  into  the  hills. 
No  one  minded  him. 

Now  and  again  a  cavalcade  came  out  of  the  flaming 
desert  to  the  south,  appearing  first  as  a  thin  dust- 
cloud  down  on  the  flat,  as  it  drew  nearer  resolving 
itself  into  pack  burros  and  men  on  mule-back;  then 
jingling  and  clattering  up  the  stony  slope  and  into 
the  corral.  And  when  they  had  dismounted,  the 
swarthy  riders  in  their  serapes  and  steep-crowned 
sombreros  trooped  into  the  adobe,  their  enormous 
spurs  tinkling  in  a  faint  chorus  upon  the  hard  earthen 
floor. 

Then  the  men  of  the  house  got  out  the  calicoes  and 
hardware  which  they  had  brought  over  the  hot  hills  and 
through  the  forests  of  giant  cacti  from  Tucson.  The 


68  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

smugglers  spread  blankets,  unbuckled  broad  money-belts 
from  their  waists,  and  stripped  out  the  dobie  dollars, 
letting  them  fall  in  clinking  heaps  upon  the  cloth.  The 
bargaining  began. 

And  when  the  last  wares  had  been  disposed  of  and 
the  last  huge  silver  coin  had  been  stowed  away  by  the 
hard-eyed  merchants,  the  Mexicans  opened  little  round 
kegs  of  mescal,  the  fiery  liquor  which  is  distilled  from 
the  juice  of  the  cactus  plant. 

They  gambled  at  monte,  quien  con,  and  other  games 
of  chance.  They  drank  together.  The  night  came  on. 

Sometimes  pistols  flamed  under  those  adobe  walls  and 
knives  gleamed  in  the  shadows. 

Then,  when  the  hot  dawn  came  on,  the  burros  were 
packed  and  the  whole  troop  filed  down  the  hill;  the 
scraped  Mexicans  riding  along  the  flanks  of  the  train, 
their  rifles  athwart  their  saddles.  The  dust  rose  about 
them,  enwrapped  them,  and  hid  them  from  sight. 
Finally  it  vanished  where  the  flat  lands  reached  away 
into  the  south. 

But  Schiefflin  was  indifferent  to  these  wild  goings 
on.  To  him  the  Bruncknow  house  meant  shelter  from 
the  Apaches;  that  was  all.  He  could  roll  up  in  his 
blankets  here  at  night  knowing  that  he  would  waken 
in  the  morning  without  any  likelihood  of  looking  up 
into  the  grinning  faces  of  savages  who  had  tracked  him 
to  his  camp. 

He  minded  his  own  business.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
his  own  business  was  the  only  thing  he  deemed  worth 
minding.  It  was  the  one  affair  of  importance  in  the 
whole  world.  The  more  he  saw  of  those  hills  the  surer 
he  became  that  they  contained  minerals.  Some- 


TOMBSTONE  69 

where  among  them,  he  fervently  believed,  an  ore  body 
of  great  richness  lay  hidden  from  the  world.  And  he 
had  been  devoting  the  years  of  his  manhood  to  seeking 
just  such  a  secret.  In  those  long  years  of  constant 
search  a  longing  mightier  than  the  lust  for  riches  had 
grown  within  him.  Explorers  know  that  longing  and 
some  great  scientists;  once  it  owns  a  man  he  becomes 
oblivious  to  all  else. 

Every  day  Schiefflin  set  forth  on  his  mule  from  the 
adobe  house.  He  rode  out  into  the  hills.  All  day  he 
hunted  through  the  winding  gullies  for  some  bits  of 
float  which  would  betray  the  presence  of  an  outcropping 
on  the  higher  levels.  Once  he  cut  the  fresh  trail  of  a 
band  of  Apaches  and  once  he  caught  sight  of  two 
mounted  savages  riding  along  a  slope  a  mile  away. 
Several  times  he  picked  up  specimens  of  rock  which 
bore  traces  of  silver.  But  he  found  no  ore  worth  assay 
ing. 

The  men  at  the  Bruncknow  house  saw  him  departing 
every  morning  and  shook  their  heads.  They  had  seen 
other  men  ride  out  alone  into  the  hills  and  they  had 
afterward  found  some  of  those  travelers — what  the 
Apaches  had  left  of  them.  It  was  no  affair  of  theirs — 
but  they  fell  into  the  habit  of  watching  the  tawny  slopes 
every  afternoon  when  the  shadows  began  to  lengthen 
and  speculating  among  themselves  whether  the  bearded 
rider  was  going  to  return  this  time.  Which  was  as 
close  to  solicitude  as  they  could  come. 

One  of  their  number — he  had  lost  two  or  three  small 
bets  by  Schiefflin 's  appearing  safe  and  sound  on 
various  evenings — took  it  upon  himself  to  give  their 
visitor  a  bit  of  advice. 


70  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

"What  for,"  he  asked,  "do  yo'-all  go  a-takin'  them 
pasears  that-a-way?" 

Schiefflin  smiled  good-naturedly  at  the  questioner. 

i '  Just  looking  for  stones, ' '  he  said. 

"Well,"  the  other  told  him,  "all  I  got  to  say  is  this. 
Yo'-all  keep  on  and  yo  '11  sure  find  yo'r  tombstone  out 
there  some  day." 

He  never  dreamed  that  he  had  named  a  town. 

Nor  did  Schiefflin  think  much  of  it  at  the  moment: 
he  had  received  other  warnings,  just  as  strong,  before. 
But  none  of  them  had  been  put  as  neatly  as  this.  So  the 
words  abode  in  his  memory  although  they  did  not  affect 
his  comings  and  goings  in  the  least. 

Only  a  few  days  later  he  left  the  Bruncknow  house 
for  a  longer  trip  than  usual.  He  rode  his  mule  down 
the  San  Pedro  toward  the  mouth  of  the  dry  wash  in 
which  the  two  prospectors  had  found  that  silver  ore  the 
day  before  they  died. 

And  the  luck  that  guides  a  man's  steps  toward  good 
or  ill,  as  the  whim  seizes  it,  saw  to  it  that  he  came  into 
the  old  camp  where  the  Apaches  had  enjoyed  their 
morning  murder  months  before. 

Some  one  had  buried  both  bodies  but  whoever  had 
done  this — possibly  it  was  one  of  the  self-styled  miners 
at  the  Bruncknow  house — had  not  enough  interest  in 
minerals  to  disturb  the  little  heap  of  specimens.  It  lay 
there  near  the  graves,  just  as  the  Apaches  had  left  it, 
just  as  its  original  owners  had  piled  it  up  before  they 
sought  their  blankets;  to  dream  perhaps  of  their  big 
strike  while  death  waited  for  the  coming  of  the  dawn, 
to  cheat  them  out  of  their  discovery. 

The  story  was  as  plain  as  printed  words  on  a  page: 


TOMBSTONE  71 

the  nameless  graves  among  the  tall  clumps  of  bear-grass 
proclaimed  the  penalty  for  venturing  into  this  neighbor 
hood.  The  little  handful  of  dark-colored  stones  be 
trayed  the  secret  of  the  riches  in  the  hills.  The  dry 
wash  came  down  between  the  ridges  half  a  mile  ahead 
to  show  the  way  to  other  float  like  this. 

It  was  as  though,  after  the  years  of  long  and  constant 
search  he  found  himself  faced  by  a  grim  challenge,  to 
attain  the  consummation  of  his  hopes  on  pain  of  death. 

When  he  had  examined  the  bits  of  rock  he  mounted 
his  mule  and  struck  out  for  the  mouth  of  the  dry 
wash. 

After  he  had  ridden  for  some  distance  up  the  stony 
bed  of  the  arroyo  he  dismounted  and  came  on  slowly 
leading  the  patient  animal.  He  searched  the  rocks  for 
fragments  of  float.  At  times  he  left  the  mule  and  crept 
to  the  summit  of  a  near-by  ridge  where  he  remained  for 
some  minutes  looking  out  over  the  country  for  some  sign 
of  Indians. 

The  day  wore  on  and  as  he  went  further  the  hills  to 
the  south  became  loftier;  the  banks  drew  closer  in  on 
both  sides  of  him;  the  boulders  in  the  arid  bed  were 
larger.  Cactus  and  Spanish  bayonet  harassed  him 
like  malignant  creatures;  skeleton  ocatillas  and 
bristling  yuccas  imposed  thorny  barriers  before  him. 
The  sun  poured  its  full  flood  of  white-hot  rays  upon 
him.  He  wound  his  way  in  and  out  among  the  obstacles, 
keeping  his  intent  eyes  upon  the  glaring  rocks,  save  only 
when  he  lifted  them  to  look  for  lurking  savages.  The 
shadows  of  noonday  lengthened  into  the  shades  of  after 
noon;  they  crept  up  the  hillsides  until  only  the  higher 
peaks  remained  a-shine;  evening  came. 


72  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

Schiefflin  picked  up  a  sharp  fragment  of  blackish 
rock. 

Horn  silver.  In  those  days  when  the  great  Comstock 
lode  was  lessening  its  yield  and  the  metal  was  at  a 
premium,  such  ore  as  this  which  he  held  meant  millions 
—if  one  could  but  find  the  main  ledge.  He  scanned  the 
specimen  closely,  looked  round  for  others  and  then,  as 
his  eyes  roved  up  the  hillside  the  exultation  born  of  that 
discovery  passed  from  him. 

Dusk  was  creeping  up  from  the  valley.  The  time 
had  passed  when  he  could  return  by  daylight  to  the 
Bruncknow  house.  He  must  make  the  most  of  the  scant 
interval  which  remained  before  darkness,  if  he  would 
find  a  hiding-place  where  he  could  camp. 

He  glanced  about  him  to  fix  the  landmarks  in  his 
memory,  that  he  might  return  to  this  spot  on  the  mor 
row.  Then  he  led  the  mule  away  into  the  hills  and 
picketed  it  out  behind  a  ridge  where  it  would  be  out  of 
sight  from  passing  Apaches. 

He  found  his  own  hiding-place  a  mile  away  from 
where  he  had  tethered  the  animal.  Here  three  huge 
bare  knolls  of  granite  boulders  rose  beside  the  wash. 
From  the  summit  of  any  one  of  these  a  man  could  survey 
the  whole  country;  between  its  ragged  rocks  he  would 
be  invisible  to  any  one  below.  He  chose  the  highest  one 
and  crept  to  its  crest. 

The  gray  twilight  was  spreading  over  the  land  when 
he  raised  his  head  above  one  of  the  boulders.  In  that 
instant  he  dropped  to  earth  as  if  he  had  been  shot.  An 
Indian  was  riding  up  to  the  bottom  of  the  knoll. 

The  Apache's  rifle  lay  across  his  lean  bare  thighs; 
his  gaunt  body  bent  forward  as  he  scanned  the  rocks 


TOMBSTONE  73 

above  him.  He  had  been  heading  for  the  hill  from  this 
side  while  Schiefflin  was  climbing  up  the  opposite  slope. 
Evidently  he  was  coming  to  the  summit  to  look  over  the 
country  for  enemies.  There  must  be  others  of  the  band 
close  by. 

Schiefflin  found  a  narrow  crack  between  two  boulders 
and  peeped  out. 

Another  savage  appeared  at  that  moment  on  the  sum 
mit  of  the  next  knoll.  He  was  afoot ;  and  now  he  stood 
there  motionless  searching  the  wide  landscape  for  any 
moving  form.  He  was  so  near  that  in  the  waning  light 
the  smear  of  war-paint  across  his  ugly  face  was  visible. 

Schiefflin  crooked  his  thumb  over  the  hammer  of  his 
rifle  and  raised  it  slowly  to  the  full  cock,  pressing  the 
trigger  with  his  finger  to  prevent  the  click. 

The  first  Apache  had  dismounted  and  was  climbing 
the  hill.  As  he  drew  closer  the  clink  of  ponies'  hoofs 
sounded  down  in  the  dry  wash.  A  number  of  dirty 
turbans  came  into  sight  above  the  bank.  More  followed 
and  still  more,  until  thirty-odd  were  bobbing  up  and 
down  to  the  movement  of  the  horses. 

A  moment  passed,  one  of  those  mighty  moments  when 
a  man's  life  appears  before  him  as  a  period  which  he 
has  finished,  when  a  man's  thoughts  rove  swiftly  over 
what  portions  of  that  period  they  choose.  And  Schief 
flin 's  mind  went  to  that  talk  with  the  man  at  the 
Bruncknow  house. 

"Yo'-all  keep  on  and  yo  '11  sure  find  yo  'r  tombstone 
out  there  some  day." 

He  could  hear  the  old-timer  saying  the  words  now. 
And,  as  he  listened  to  the  grim  warning  again,  he  felt — 
as  perhaps  those  two  prospectors  felt  in  the  moment  of 


74  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

their  awakening  down  by  the  river — that  fate  had  sadly 
swindled  him.  He  was  stiffening  his  trigger-finger  for 
the  pull,  peering  across  the  sights  at  the  Indian  who  had 
climbed  to  within  a  few  yards  of  the  weapon's  muzzle, 
when — the  warrior  on  the  summit  of  the  next  knoll 
waved  his  hand.  The  Apache  halted  at  the  gesture  and 
Schiefflin  followed  his  gaze  in  time  to  see  the  lean  brown 
arm  of  the  sentinel  sweep  forward.  Both  of  the  savages 
turned  and  descended  the  knolls. 

They  caught  up  their  ponies  and  rode  on,  following 
the  course  of  the  wash  below  them.  The  band  down  in 
the  arroyo's  bed  were  receding.  The  rattle  of  hoofs 
grew  fainter.  Schiefflin  lowered  the  hammer  of  his 
rifle  and  took  his  first  full  breath. 

A  low  outcry  down  the  wash  stopped  his  breathing 
again.  The  band  had  stopped  their  ponies;  some  of 
them  were  dismounting.  He  could  see  these  gathering 
about  the  place  where  he  had  led  his  mule  up  the  bank. 

Two  of  them  were  pointing  along  the  course  he  had 
taken  with  the  animal.  Several  others  were  creeping 
up  the  slope  on  their  bellies  following  the  fresh  trail. 
The  murmur  of  their  voices  reached  the  white  man 
where  he  lay  watching  them. 

Then,  as  he  was  giving  up  hope  for  the  second  time, 
a  mounted  warrior — evidently  he  was  their  chief- 
called  to  the  trackers.  They  rose,  looked  about  and 
scurried  back  to  their  ponies  like  frightened  quail.  The 
whole  band  were  hammering  their  heels  against  the 
flanks  of  their  little  mounts.  The  coming  of  the  night 
had  frightened  them  away. 

The  shadows  deepened;  stillness  returned  upon  the 


TOMBSTONE  75 

land;  the  stars  grew  larger  in  the  velvet  sky.  Schief- 
flin  crouched  among  the  boulders  at  the  summit  of  the 
knoll  and  fought  off  sleep  while  the  great  constellations 
wheeled  in  their  long  courses.  The  dawn  would 
come  in  its  proper  time,  and  it  seemed  as  certain  as  that 
fact  that  they  would  return  to  hunt  him  out. 

He  dared  not  leave  the  place,  for  he  might  stray  into 
some  locality  where  they  would  find  him  without  shelter 
when  the  day  revealed  his  trail.  So  he  waited  for  the 
sunrise  and  the  beginning  of  the  attack. 

At  last  the  color  deepened  in  the  east.  The  rocks  be 
low  his  hiding-place  stood  out  more  clearly.  He  could 
see  no  sign  among  them  of  creeping  savages.  The  sun 
rose  and  still  nothing  moved. 

He  came  forth  finally  in  the  full  blaze  of  the  hot 
morning  and  found  the  mule  where  he  had  picketed  it 
behind  the  ridge.  When  he  returned  to  the  dry  wash 
he  saw  the  tracks  where  the  band  had  passed  the  eve 
ning  before.  For  some  reason  of  their  own  they  had 
found  it  best  to  keep  on  that  course  instead  of  coming 
back  to  murder  him. 

He  resumed  his  search  for  float  where  he  had  left  it 
off.  It  showed  more  frequently  as  he  went  on.  He 
followed  the  bits  of  ore  to  a  narrow  stringer  of  blackish 
rock.  He  dug  into  it  with  his  prospector's  pick, 
chipped  off  specimens,  and  carefully  covered  up  the 
hole.  The  danger  of  Apaches  had  passed,  but  a  new 
fear  had  come  to  him,  the  dread  that  some  rival  pros 
pector  might  happen  upon  his  discovery  before  he  could 
establish  possession. 

For  his  provisions  were  running  low.     He  had  no 


76  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

money.  He  needed  a  good  grubstake — and  companions 
to  help  him  hold  down  the  claim  against  jumpers — be 
fore  he  could  begin  development  work. 

He  hurried  back  to  the  Bruncknow  house.  An  attack 
of  chills  and  fever,  brought  on  by  his  night  among  the 
rocks,  gave  him  a  good  excuse  to  leave  the  place.  The 
climate,  he  said,  did  not  agree  with  him. 

While  he  was  trying  to  think  of  one  with  whom  to 
share  his  secret,  one  whom  he  could  trust  to  take  his  full 
portion  of  the  dangers  which  would  attend  the  claim's 
development,  he  remembered  his  brother  Al,  who  was 
working  at  the  Signal  mine  way  over  in  Mohave  County. 
There  was  the  man.  So  he  made  his  way  across  the 
State  of  Arizona.  He  stopped  at  times  to  earn  money 
for  food  to  carry  him  through  and  it  was  December  be 
fore  he  reached  his  destination. 

Al  Schieffln  had  a  friend,  Dick  Gird,  who  was  an 
assayer.  Gird  saw  the  specimens,  tested  them,  and  was 
on  fire  at  once.  He  joined  forces  with  the  brothers, 
helped  them  to  procure  a  grubstake,  and  in  January, 
1878,  the  three  men  set  forth  from  Williams  Fork  of 
the  Colorado  River  in  a  light  wagon  drawn  by  two 
mules. 

Spring  was  well  on  its  way  when  they  reached  Tuc 
son  and  made  their  camp  in  Bob  Leatherwood 's  corral. 
The  Apaches  were  raiding  throughout  the  southeastern 
part  of  the  territory  and  the  little  town  of  adobes  was 
getting  new  reports  of  murders  from  that  section  every 
day. 

They  drove  their  mules  on  eastward  up  the  long  mesas 
leading  to  the  San  Pedro  Divide.  At  the  Pantano  stage 
station  they  saw  the  fresh  scars  of  Apache  bullets  on 


TOMBSTONE  77 

the  adobe  walls.  The  men  had  held  the  place  against 
a  large  band  of  Geronimo's  warriors  only  a  few  days 
before. 

Now  as  they  drove  on  they  kept  constant  lookout 
and  their  rifles  were  nearly  always  in  their  hands. 
Every  morning  they  rose  long  before  the  dawn,  and 
two  of  them  would  climb  the  ridges  near  the  camp  to 
watch  the  country  as  the  light  came  over  it,  while  the 
other  caught  up  the  mules  and  harnessed  them. 

They  turned  southward  up  the  San  Pedro,  avoiding 
the  stage  station  at  the  crossing  of  the  river  lest  some 
other  party  of  prospectors  might  follow  them.  They 
made  a  circuit  around  the  Mormon  settlment  at  St. 
Davids  and  came  on  to  the  Bruncknow  house,  to  find 
two  more  fresh  graves  of  Apache  victims  under  the 
adobe  walls. 

They  made  their  permanent  camp  here,  and  Schiefflin 
took  his  two  companions  up  the  dry  wash.  They 
found  the  outcropping  undisturbed.  Gird  and  Al 
Schiefflin  dug  away  at  the  dark  rock  with  their  pros 
pector's  picks.  Less  than  three  feet  below  the  surface 
the  stringer  pinched  out.  The  claim  was  not  worth 
staking. 

Beside  the  little  strip  of  ore,  whose  false  prom 
ises  of  riches  had  lured  them  into  this  land  of  death, 
they  held  a  conference.  The  hills  opened  to  a  low 
swale  which  led  up  toward  the  loftier  summits  in  the 
south.  They  decided  to  follow  that  depression  in 
search  of  another  ledge. 

They  made  their  daily  journeys  along  its  course,  re 
turning  with  evening  to  the  Bruncknow  house,  whose 
inmates  were  away  at  the  time  on  some  expedition  of 


78  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

their  own.  Sometimes  they  saw  the  smoke  of  signal- 
fires  over  in  the  Dragoons;  sometimes  the  slender 
columns  rose  from  the  summit  of  the  Whetstone 
Mountains  in  the  north.  One  morning — they  had  spent 
the  previous  night  out  here  in  the  hills — they  awoke  to 
find  a  fresh  trail  in  the  bear-grass  within  a  hundred 
yards  of  where  they  had  been  sleeping,  and  in  the 
middle  of  the  track  Dick  Gird  picked  up  one  of  the 
rawhide  wristlets  which  Apaches  wore  to  protect  their 
arms  from  the  bowstring. 

That  day  Ed  Schiefflin  discovered  a  new  outcrop 
ping.  Gird  assayed  the  specimens  in  a  rude  furnace 
which  he  had  fashioned  from  the  fireplace  at  the 
Bruncknow  house.  Some  of  them  yielded  as  high  as 
$2,200  to  the  ton.  Exploration  work  showed  every 
evidence  of  a  great  ore  body.  Two  or  three  of  the 
fragments  which  they  had  chipped  from  it  below  the 
surface  assayed  $9,000  a  ton.  They  had  made  their 
big  strike.  They  staked  the  claim,  and  when  they  came 
to  fixing  on  a  name  Ed  Schiefflin  remembered  once 
more  those  words  of  the  old-timer  at  the  Bruncknow 
house. 

"We  '11  call  it  the  Tombstone/'  he  said,  and  told 
the  story. 

It  was  recorded  in  Tucson  as  the  Tombstone.  And 
when  the  big  rush  came,  Ed  Schiefflin,  then  a  figure  of 
importance  in  the  new  camp,  recited  the  tale  to  some 
of  the  men  who  had  risked  their  lives  in  traveling  to 
these  hills.  And  so  they  in  turn  retold  the  tale. 

That  is  the  way  the  town  got  its  name. 

In  after  years  when  men  had  learned  the  fulness  of 
that  secret  which  the  Apaches  had  guarded  so  well  from 


TOMBSTONE  79 

the  world — when  Bisbee  and  Nacosari  and  Cananea  were 
yielding  their  enormous  stores  of  metal  and  Tombstone's 
mines  had  given  forth  many  millions  of  dollars  in  silver, 
Ed  Schiefflin  remained  a  wealthy  man.  But  the  habit 
of  prospecting  abided  with  him  and  he  used  to  spend 
long  months  alone  in  the  wilderness  searching  for  the 
pure  love  of  search. 

Just  before  one  of  these  expeditions  he  was  driving 
out  of  Tombstone  with  Gus  Barron,  another  old-timer 
and  a  close  friend,  and  as  they  went  down  the  Fair- 
bank  road  they  reached  the  spot  where  the  three  great 
boulder  knolls  rise  beside  the  dry  wash.  Schiefflin 
drew  rein. 

"This,"  he  said  to  Barron,  "is  the  place  where  I 
camped  that  night  when  the  Apaches  almost  got  me,  the 
night  before  I  found  the  stringer  on  the  hill.  And 
when  I  die  I  want  to  be  buried  here  with  my  canteen 
and  my  prospector's  pick  beside  me." 

So  when  he  died  up  in  Canon  City,  Oregon,  just 
about  twenty  years  after  he  had  made  that  discovery, 
they  brought  his  body  back  and  buried  it  on  the  sum 
mit  of  the  knoll.  And  they  erected  a  great  pyramid 
of  granite  boulders  on  the  spot  for  his  monument. 

And  within  sight  of  that  lonely  tomb  the  town 
stands  out  on  the  sky-line,  commemorating  by  its  name 
the  steadfastness  of  Ed  Schiefflin,  prospector. 


TOMBSTONE'S  WILD  OATS 

IN  the  good  old  days  of  Indians  and  bad  men  the 
roaring  town  of  Tombstone  had  a  man  for  break 
fast  every  morning.     And  there  were  mornings  when 
the  number  ran  as  high  as  half  a  dozen. 

That  is  the  way  the  old-timers  speak  of  it,  and  there 
is  a  fond  pride  in  their  voices  when  they  allude  to 
the  subject;  the  same  sort  of  pride  one  betrays  when 
he  tells  of  the  wild  oats  sowed  by  a  gray-haired  friend 
during  his  lusty  youth.  For  Tombstone  has  settled 
down  to  middle-aged  conventionality  and  is  peaceable 
enough  to-day  for  any  man. 

But  in  the  early  eighties! 

Apaches  were  raiding;  claim-jumpers  were  bat 
tling;  road-agents  were  robbing  stages;  bad  men  were 
slaying  one  another  in  the  streets;  and,  taking  it  alto 
gether,  life  was  stepping  to  a  lively  tune. 

Geronimo's  naked  warriors  were  industrious.  Now 
they  would  steal  upon  a  pair  of  miners  doing  assess 
ment  work  within  sight  of  town.  Now  they  would 
bag  a  teamster  on  the  road  from  Tucson,  or  raid  a 
ranch,  or  attack  the  laborers  who  were  laying  the 
water  company's  pipe-line  to  the  Huachucas.  Hardly 
a  week  passed  but  a  party  of  hard-eyed  horsemen  rode 
out  from  Tombstone  with  their  rifles  across  their  sad 
dle-bows,  escorting  a  wagon  which  had  been  sent  to 
bring  in  the  bodies  of  the  latest  victims. 

80 


TOMBSTONE'S  WILD  OATS  81 

In  the  two  years  after  the  first  rush  from  Tucson  to 
the  rich  silver  district  which  Ed  Schiefflin  had  dis 
covered,  there  was  much  claim-jumping.  And  claim- 
jumping  in  those  days  always  meant  shooting.  Some 
properties  were  taken  and  retaken  several  times,  each 
occasion  being  accompanied  by  bloodshed.  Surveying 
parties  marched  into  the  foot-hills  of  the  Mule  Moun 
tains  under  escort  of  companies  of  riflemen;  in  more 
than  one  instance  they  laid  out  boundary  lines  and 
established  corner  monuments  after  pitched  battles, 
each  with  its  own  formidable  casualty  list. 

What  with  the  murders  by  the  savages  and  these 
affrays — together  with  such  natural  hazards  of  disease 
and  accident  as  accompany  any  new  mining  camp — the 
boot-hill  .graveyard  out  beyond  the  north  end  of  the 
wide  main  street  was  booming  like  the  town.  And 
now  there  came  a  more  potent  factor  in  stimulating 
mortuary  statistics. 

The  bad  men  took  possession  of  Tombstone. 

They  came  from  all  over  the  West.  For  railroads  and 
telegraph  lines  were  -bringing  a  new  order  of  things 
from  the  Missouri  to  the  Rio  Grande,  and  those  who 
would  live  by  the  forty-five  hastened  to  ride  away 
from  sight  of  jails  and  churches,  seeking  this  new  haven 
down  by  the  border. 

One  by  one  they  drifted  across  the  flaring  South 
western  deserts;  from  California,  Montana,  Colorado, 
Kansas,  Texas,  and  New  Mexico,  with  their  grim  mouths 
tight  shut  against  all  questions  and  their  big  revolvers 
dangling  beside  their  thighs.  The  hair  of  some  of  them 
was  gray  from  many  winters  and  their  faces  deeply 
lined;  and  some  were  boys  with  down  on  their  smooth 


82  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

cheeks.  But  once  his  hand  started  moving  toward  his 
pistol,  every  man  of  them  was  deadlier  than  a  bull 
rattle-snake  in  rutting  time. 

No  man  challenged  them  on  their  arrival.  The 
town  was  too  busy  to  heed  their  presence.  The  one- 
story  buildings  which  lined  the  wide  streets  were 
packed  to  the  doors  with  customers ;  saloons,  dance-halls, 
and  gambling-houses  roared  on  through  day  and  night; 
the  stores  were  open  at  all  hours.  The  wide  sidewalks 
under  the  wooden  awnings  which  ran  the  length  of 
every  block,  were  crowded  from  wall  to  gutter  with  men 
intent  on  getting  wealth  or  spending  it. 

The  bad  men  mingled  with  the  sidewalk  throngs; 
they  dropped  into  the  Bird-Cage  Opera  House,  where 
painted  women  sang  in  voices  that  clanged  like  brazen 
gongs;  they  took  their  places  before  the  gambling- 
tables  of  the  Crystal  Palace,  where  girls  were  oftentimes 
to  be  found  dealing  faro ;  they  joined  the  long  lines 
before  the  bars  and  drank  the  stinging  whisky  which 
the  wagon-trains  had  brought  from  Tucson.  And 
they  met  one  another. 

It  was  like  the  meeting  of  strange  dogs,  who  bristle 
on  sight,  and  often  fly  at  one  another's  throats  to 
settle  the  question  of  supremacy.  Their  big-caliber 
revolvers  spat  streams  of  fire  in  the  roadways  and  bel 
lowed  in  the  dance-halls.  And  gradually  among  the 
ranks  of  the  survivors  there  came  a  gradation  in  their 
badness. 

Several  loomed  far  above  the  others:  John  Ringo, 
Frank  Stilwell,  Zwing  Hunt,  the  Clanton  brothers, 
and  Billy  Grounds.  They  were  ''He  Wolves."  And 


TOMBSTONE'S  WILD  OATS  83 

there  was  Curly  Bill,  the  worst  of  all.  He  might 
be  said  to  rule  them. 

They  settled  down  to  business,  which  is  to  say  they 
started  to  do  the  best  they  could  for  themselves  ac 
cording  to  their  separate  capacities  for  doing  evil  unto 
others. 

They  rustled  stock.  They  drove  whole  herds  over 
the  boundary  from  Mexico.  They  pillaged  the  ranches, 
which  were  now  coming  into  the  adjacent  country,  steal 
ing  horses,  altering  brands,  and  slaying  whoever  in 
terfered  with  them,  all  with  the  boldness  of  medieval 
raiders.  They  took  a  hand  in  the  claim- jump  ing. 
They  robbed  the  stage. 

Hardly  a  day  passed  without  a  hold-up  on  the  Tuc 
son  road — and,  when  the  railway  went  through,  on  the 
road  to  Benson,  Shotgun  guards  and  drivers  were 
killed;  occasionally  a  passenger  or  two  got  a  bullet. 
And  the  bad  men  spent  the  money  openly  over  the  bars 
in  Tombstone. 

Then  the  Earp  brothers  came  upon  the  scene.  From 
this  time  their  figures  loom  large  in  the  foreground. 
Whatever  else  may  be  said  of  them  they  were  bold 
men  and  there  was  something  Homeric  in  their  violence. 
Wyatt,  Virgil,  Morgan,  and  Jim,  the  first  three  were 
active  in  the  wild  events  which  followed  their  incum 
bency  to  power.  California  knew  them  in  their  boy 
hood,  and  during  their  manhood  years  they  wandered 
over  the  West,  from  mining  camp  to  cow-town,  until 
they  came  to  Tombstone  from  Dodge  City,  Kansas. 

They  brought  a  record  with  them.  Back  in  the 
seventies,  in  the  time  of  the  trail  herds,  Dodge  was 
a  howling  cow-town.  There  was  a  period  of  its  exist- 


84  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

ence  when  the  punchers  used  to  indulge  in  the  past- 
time  of  shooting  up  the  place;  but  there  were  a  great 
many  of  these  frolicsome  riders,  and  too  much  wanton 
revolver  shooting  is  sure  to  breed  trouble  if  it  is  com 
bined  with  hard  liquor,  gambling,  and  a  tough  float 
ing  population.  The  prominent  business  men  of  Dodge 
watched  the  hectic  consequences  of  this  lawlessness 
over  their  faro  layouts  with  speculative  eyes  and  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  killings  were  becoming  alto 
gether  too  promiscuous.  The  town,  they  said,  needed 
a  business  administration;  and  forthwith  they  selected 
Bat  Masterson  as  marshal.  He  established,  and  en 
forced,  a  rule  which  amounted  to  this  : 

If  a  man  pulled  his  gun  he  did  it  at  his  own  peril. 
Whoever  fired  a  shot  within  the  town  limits,  whether 
he  did  it  for  sport  or  murder,  fac£d  arrest. 

Resistance  followed.  There  were  nights  when  the 
main  street  echoed  with  the  roaring  of  firearms.  But, 
by  the  force  of  his  personality  and  by  his  remarkable 
ability  at  the  quick  draw,  Bat  Masterson  subdued  the 
rebels.  It  came  about  that  of  what  killing  was  done 
he  did  his  full  share,  which  greatly  diminished  the  death 
list. 

Wyatt  and  Virgil  Earp  succeeded  Bat  Masterson  in 
this  office  and  carried  on  its  administration  with  a 
boldness  which  left  them  famous.  With  the  coroner  be 
hind  them  they  were  lords  of  the  high  justice,  the 
middle,  and  the  low ;  and  they  sustained  their  positions 
by  good  straight  shooting. 

At  such  times  as  they  were  not  performing  their 
functions  as  peace  officers  they  were  dealing  faro;  and 
when  the  imminence  of  a  less  interesting  era  was  made 


TOMBSTONE'S  WILD  OATS  85 

apparent  in  the  dwindling  of  the  trail  herds  and  the 
increase  of  dry  farmers,  they  left  the  good  old  cow- 
town  along  with  many  other  professional  gamblers. 

They  arrived  in  Tombstone  in  the  days  when  the 
outlaws  were  rampant,  and  they  began  dealing  faro  in 
Oriental.  They  found  many  a  friend — and  some 
enemies — from  those  years  in  western  Kansas  among 
the  more  adventurous  element  in  the  new  town.  Former 
buffalo-hunters,  teamsters,  quiet-spoken  gamblers,  and 
two-gun  men  sat  down  before  their  lay-outs  and  talked 
over  bygones  with  them.  There  was  an  election  at 
about  this  time.  Virgil  was  chosen  town  marshal,  and 
Wyatt  got  the  appointment  of  deputy  United  States 
marshal  soon  afterward. 

Old  friends  and  new  rallied  around  them.  Of  the 
former  was  Doc  Holliday,  a  tubercular  gunman  with 
the  irascible  disposition  which  some  invalids  own,  who 
had  drifted  hither  from  Colorado.  Among  the  latter 
were  the  Clanton  brothers  and  Frank  Stilwell,  who 
robbed  the  stage  and  rustled  cattle  for  a  living.  John 
Ringo,  who  was  really  the  brains  of  the  outlaws,  and 
Curly  Bill,  who  often  led  them,  are  listed  by  many  old- 
timers  among  the  henchmen  in  the  beginning. 

It  was  a  time  when  the  old  spoils  system  was  rec 
ognized  in  its  pristine  simplicity.  If  you  trained  with 
the  victorious  political  faction  you  either  wore  a  star  or 
had  some  one  else  who  did  wear  a  star  backing  you. 
If  you  trained  with  the  minority  you  were  rather  sure, 
sooner  or  later,  to  have  your  name  engrossed  on  a  war 
rant.  In  such  an  era  it  was  as  well  to  vote  wisely ;  else, 
in  the  vernacular,  you  were  ' '  short ' '  in  your  home  town, 
which  meant  you  could  not  go  back  there. 


86  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

How  much  the  Earps  knew  of  what  their  henchmen 
did  is  beyond  ;the  telling  in  this  story.  An  official  his 
tory  of  Arizona  published  under  the  auspices  of  the 
State  legislature  and  written  by  Major  McClintock,  an 
old  Westerner,  states  that  first  and  last  they  were  ac 
cused  of  about  50  per  cent,  of  the  robberies  which  took 
place  in  the  town.  It  is;  however,  altogether  possible 
that  their  cognizance  of  such  matters  was  no  greater 
than  many  a  city  official  to-day  holds  of  crimes  com 
mitted  in  his  bailiwick.  When  one  comes  to  analyze 
police  politics  he  finds  they  have  not  changed  much 
since  the  time  of  the  Crusades:  desire  for  power  has 
always  blinded  reformers  to  the  misdeeds  of  their  fol 
lowers.  One  thing  is  certain;  the  Earps  did  protect 
their  friends,  and  some  of  those  friends  were  using 
very  much  the  same  methods  which  the  Apaches  em 
ployed  in  making  a  living. 

To  a  certain  extent  this  was  necessary.  What  one 
might  call  the  highly  respectable  element  of  the  town 
was  busy  at  its  own  affairs.  Mine-owners  and  merchants 
were  deeply  engrossed  in  getting  rich.  And  unless  he 
liked  gun-fighting,  a  man  would  have  to  be  a  good  deal 
of  a  busybody  to  give  the  town  marshal  anything  more 
tangible  than  his  best  wishes  in  the  way  of  support.  It 
was  up  to  that  official  to  look  out  for  himself.  At  any 
time  when  complications  followed  his  attempt  to  ar 
rest  a  lawbreaker  he  could  depend  upon  the  average 
citizen — to  get  outside  the  line  of  fire. 

And  the  gun-fighters  were  eager  to  get  into  the  game. 
They  were  right  on  hand,  to  make  a  stand  in  front  of 
the  enemy  if  need  be — but  preferably  to  murder  the  foe 


TOMBSTONE'S  WILD  OATS  87 

from  behind.  "Which  was  ever  the  way  with  the  Western 
bad  man. 

There  were  determined  men  of  another  breed  in  Tomb 
stone  and  the  surrounding  country,  men  who  had  out 
fought  Apaches  and  desperadoes  on  many  an  occasion; 
dead  shots  who  owned  high  moral  courage.  Such  a  man 
was  John  Slaughter,  who  had  established  his  ranch 
down  on  the  Mexican  line  and  had  driven  the  savages 
away  from  his  neighborhood.  But  these  old-timers 
were  not  enlisted  under  the  Earp  banner  and  the  town's 
new  rulers  had  only  the  other  element  for  retainers. 

So  now  Frank  Stilwell  robbed  stages  on  the  Bisbee 
road  until  the  drivers  got  to  know  his  voice  quite  well; 
and  he  swaggered  through  the  Tombstone  dance-halls 
bestowing  the  rings  which  he  had  stripped  from  the 
fingers  of  women  passengers  upon  his  latest  favorite. 
Ike  and  Billy  Clanton  enlarged  their  herds  with  cattle 
and  horses  from  other  men's  ranges,  and  sold  beef  with 
other  men's  brands  to  Tombstone  butchers.  And  tak 
ing  it  altogether,  the  whole  crew,  from  Doc  Holliday 
down,  did  what  they  could  to  bring  popular  disfavor 
upon  the  heads  of  the  new  peace  officers. 

But  if  their  followers  were  lacking  in  the  quality  of 
moral  courage,  that  cannot  be  said  of  the  Earp  brothers. 
And  not  long  after  they  took  the  reins  in  their  strong 
hands,  an  occasion  arose  wherein  they  proved  their 
caliber.  Wyatt  in  particular  showed  that  he  was  made 
of  stern  stuff. 

It  came  about  as  a  result  of  the  reforms  under  the 
new  regime.  After  the  manner  of  their  Dodge  City 
administration  the  brothers  ruled  in  Tombstone.  They 


88  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

forbade  the  practice  of  shooting  up  the  town.  He  who 
sought  to  take  possession  of  a  dance-hall  according  to 
the  old  custom,  which  consisted  of  driving  out  the  in 
mates  with  drawn  revolvers  and  extinguishing  the  lights 
with  forty-five  caliber  slugs,  was  forthwith  arrested. 
To  ride  a  horse  into  a  saloon  and  order  drinks  for  all 
hands  meant  jail  and  a  heavy  fine.  To  slay  a  gambler, 
or  make  a  gun-play  in  a  gambling-house,  when  luck  was 
running  badly,  resulted  in  prosecution. 

Virgil  Earp  attended  to  these  matters,  and  after 
several  incidents  wherein  he  disarmed  ugly  men  whose 
friends  stood  by  eager  to  let  daylight  into  the  new  mar 
shal,  he  owned  a  certain  amount  of  prestige.  It  is  only 
fair  to  remark  in  passing  that  he  had  a  disposition — in 
ticklish  cases — to  shoot  first  and  ask  questions  after 
ward  ;  but  that  was  recognized  as  an  officer 's  inalienable 
right  in  those  rude  days. 

Now  this  new  order  of  things  did  not  meet  universal 
popular  favor  in  Tombstone.  There  were  always  three 
or  four  hundred  miners  off  shift  on  the  streets,  and 
while  a  large  percentage  of  them  were  peaceable  men, 
there  was  a  boisterous  element.  This  element,  and  the 
cow-boys  who  had  been  in  the  habit  of  celebrating  their 
town  comings  after  the  good  old  fashion,  felt  resentful. 
An  occasional  killing  of  one  of  their  number  with  the 
invariable  verdict  from  a  carefully  picked  coroner's 
jury,  "met  his  death  while  resisting  an  officer  in  perfor 
mance  of  his  duty,"  made  the  resentment  more  general. 
The  recalcitrants  said  that  Tombstone  was  being  run  by 
a  gang  of  murderers  in  the  interest  of  the  gamblers. 

Opposition  to  the  administration  began  to  crystallize. 


TOMBSTONE'S  WILD  OATS  89 

Things  reached  the  point  where  in  a  twentieth  century 
community  reformers  would  be  preparing  to  circulate 
recall  petitions.  But  in  the  early  eighties  they  did 
things  more  directly,  and  instead  of  the  recall  they  had 
the  "show-down."  The  malcontents  eagerly  awaited 
its  coming. 

It  came.     And  its  origin  was  in  Charleston. 

Charleston  was  eleven  miles  across  the  hills  from 
Tombstone  down  by  the  San  Pedro  River.  There  was 
a  mill  there,  and  the  cow-boys  from  the  country  around 
came  in  to  spend  their  money.  Jim  Burnett  was  justice 
of  the  peace.  Early  in  the  town's  history  he  had  se 
ceded  from  the  county  of  Pima  because  the  supervisors 
over  in  Tucson  refused  to  allow  him  certain  fees. 
"Hereafter,"  so  he  wrote  the  board,  "the  justice  court 
in  Charleston  will  look  after  itself."  Which  it  did. 
Once  the  court  dragged  Jack  Harker  from  his  horse, 
when  that  enthusiastic  stockman  was  celebrating  his  ar 
rival  by  bombarding  the  town,  and  fined  the  prisoner 
fifty  head  of  three-year-old  steers.  And  once — it  is  a 
matter  of  record — a  coroner 's  jury  under  his  instruction 
rendered  the  verdict:  "Served  the  Mexican  right  for 
getting  in  front  of  the  gun." 

Things  always  moved  swiftly  in  Charleston.  There 
is  a  tale  of  a  saloon-keeper  who  buried  his  wife  in  the 
morning,  killed  a  man  at  high  noon,  and  took  unto  him 
self  a  new  bride  before  evening.  If  that  story  is  not 
true — and  old-timers  vouch  for  it — it  is  at  least  in 
dicative  of  the  trend  of  life  in  the  town. 

And  to  Charleston  came  those  followers  of  John 
Ringo  and  Curly  Bill  who  did  not  get  on  with  the  Earps. 


90  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

Several  of  them  became  men  of  influence  down  here  on 
the  San  Pedro.  Hither  flocked  those  boisterous  spirits 
who  craved  more  freedom  of  action  on  pay-day  than  the 
mining  town  afforded. 

Guns  blazed  in  Charleston  whenever  the  spirit  moved. 
The  young  fellow  who  was  ditch-tender  for  the  company 
had  to  give  up  his  lantern  when  he  made  his  nightly 
trip  of  inspection,  because,  as  surely  as  that  light 
showed  up  on  the  side  hill,  there  was  certain  to  be  some 
one  down  in  the  street  who  could  not  resist  taking  a 
shot  at  it.  So  while  dissatisfaction  was  crystallizing 
among  the  miners  of  Tombstone  a  keen  rancor  against 
the  Earps  was  developing  over  by  the  San  Pedro. 

This  was  the  state  of  affairs  when  Johnny  Behind  the 
Deuce  brought  matters  to  a  crisis  by  killing  an  engineer 
from  the  mill. 

Johnny  Behind  the  Deuce  was  an  undersized,  scrawny 
specimen  of  the  genus  which  is  popularly  known  as 
"tinhorn,"  a  sort  of  free-lance  gambler,  usually  to  be 
found  sitting  in  at  a  poker-game.  The  engineer  was  a 
big  man  and  abusive. 

There  was  a  game  in  which  these  two  participated; 
and  when  he  had  lost  his  wages  to  Johnny  Behind  the 
Deuce,  the  engineer  sought  solace  first  in  vituperation, 
then  in  physical  maltreatment.  Whereat  Johnny  Be 
hind  the  Deuce  shot  him.  Charleston's  constable  took 
the  slayer  into  custody.  The  rustlers  and  other  exiles 
from  Tombstone  knew  the  prisoner  for  a  friend  of  the 
Earps,  and  so  they  decided  to  lynch  him.  They  sent 
one  of  their  number  to  get  a  reata  for  that  purpose. 

The  constable  learned  what  was  going  on.  He  com 
mandeered  a  buckboard  and  a  team  of  mules,  put 


TOMBSTONE'S  WILD  OATS  91 

Johnny  Behind  the  Deuce  aboard,  and  drove  the  ani 
mals  on  the  dead  run  for  Tombstone. 

When  the  man  who  had  been  sent  for  the  reata  re 
turned,  the  rustlers  set  o-ut  after  the  prisoner  and  found 
they  were  five  minutes  too  late.  They  saddled  up  and 
started  in  pursuit. 

The  road  wound  along  the  lower  levels  between  the 
foot-hills  of  the  Mule  Mountains;  there  were  two  or 
three  dry  washes  to  cross,  some  sharp  grades  to  negotiate, 
and  several  fine  stretches  which  were  nearly  level, — a 
rough  road,  admira-bly  suited  for  making  a  wild  race 
wilder. 

And  this  was  a  wild  race.  The  constable  and  the 
prisoner  were  just  getting  their  team  nicely  warmed  up 
when  they  heard  a  fusillade  of  revolver-shots  behind 
them.  They  glanced  over  their  shoulders  and  saw  more 
than  fifty  horsemen  coming  on  at  that  gait  which  is  so 
well  described  in  the  vernacular  as  "burning  the  wind." 
From  time  to  time  one  of  these  riders  would  lean  for 
ward  and  "throw  down"  his  six-shooter;  then  the 
occupants  of  the  buckboard  would  hear  the  whine  of  a 
forty-five  slug,  and  a  moment  later  the  report  of  the 
distant  weapon  would  reach  their  ears. 

The  mules  heard  these  things  too.  What  with  the 
noise  of  the  firearms  and  the  whoops  of  the  pursuers 
they  were  in  a  frenzy;  they  threw  their  long  ears  flat 
back  and  entered  into  the  spirit  of  the  occasion  by 
running  away.  The  constable,  who  was  a  cool  man  and 
a  good  driver,  centered  his  energies  on  guiding  them 
around  the  turns  and  let  it  go  at  that. 

Now  as  the  miles  of  tawny  landscape  flashed  behind 
them  the  two  fugitives  saw  that  they  were  being  over- 


92  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

hauled.  And  the  pursuers  found  that  they  were  gain 
ing;  their  yells  came  louder  down  the  wind;  they 
roweled  their  lathered  cow-ponies.  And  they  drew 
closer  to  the  buckboard. 

The  constable  negotiated  the  dry  wash  near  Robbers 
Rock  on  two  wheels,  and  as  the  light  vehicle  was  reeling 
along  the  easy  grade  beyond,  the  prisoner  took  another 
look  behind.  He  told  his  captor  that  the  wild  riders 
were  not  much  more  than  four  hundred  yards  away. 

They  came  to  a  stretch  of  level  road.  The  mules  were 
doing  a  little  better  now,  and  they  clattered  down  into 
the  next  dry  wash  with  an  abandon  which  all  but  ended 
matters;  the  outer  wheels  went  over  the  high  cut  bank, 
but  by  the  grace  of  good  luck  and  marvelous  driving  the 
buckboard  was  kept  right  side  up.  And  now  the  lynch 
ing  party,  who  had  made  a  short  cut,  appeared  between 
the  rolling  hills  not  more  than  two  hundred  yards 
behind. 

Johnny  Behind  the  Deuce  reported  the  state  of  affairs. 
The  constable  answered  without  turning  his  head. 

"Looks  like  we  're  up  against  it,  kid,"  said  he,  "but 
we  '11  play  it  out  's  long  as  we  got  chips  left. ' ' 

Three  miles  outside  of  Tombstone  stood  an  adobe 
building  wherein  a  venturesome  saloon-keeper  had  in 
stalled  himself,  a  barrel  of  that  remarkable  whisky 
known  as  ' '  Kill  Me  Quick, ' '  and  sufficient  arms  to  main 
tain  possession  against  road-agents.  The  sign  on  this 
establishment 's  front  wall  said : 

LAST  CHANCE 

It  was  a  lucky  chance  for  Johnny  Behind  the  Deuce. 
For  Jack  McCann,  who  owned  a  fast  mare,  was  ex- 


TOMBSTONE'S  WILD  OATS  93 

ercising  her  out  here  this  afternoon  preparatory  for  a 
race  against  some  cow-ponies  over  on  the  San  Pedro 
next  week.  He  had  trotted  her  down  the  road  and  was 
about  to  head  her  back  toward  the  saloon  for  her  burst 
of  speed  when  he  saw  the  buckboard  coming  over  a 
rise. 

The  mules  were  fagged.  The  constable  was  lashing 
them  with  might  and  main.  The  lynching  party  were 
within  a  hundred  yards. 

As  Jack  McCann  surveyed  this  spectacle  which  was  so 
rapidly  approaching  him  the  constable  waved  his  hand. 
The  situation  was  too  tight  to  permit  wasting  time.  Mc 
Cann  ranged  his  mare  alongside  the  buckboard  as  soon 
as  it  drew  up ;  and  before  the  breathless  driver  had  be 
gun  to  explain,  he  cried. 

"Jump  on,  kid." 

Johnny  Behind  the  Deuce  leaped  on  the  mare's  back. 
The  constable  pulled  off  the  road  as  the  lynching  party 
came  thundering  by  with  a  whoop  and  halloo.  He 
peered  through  the  dust  which  the  ponies'  hoofs  had 
stirred  up  and  saw  the  mare  fading  away  in  the  direc 
tion  of  Tombstone  with  her  two  riders. 

It  was  nearly  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  That 
hour  was  the  dullest  of  the  twenty-four  in  the  gambling- 
houses,  for  the  evening  shift  was  on  its  way  to  work 
and  the  day  shift  had  not  yet  come  off.  The  Earps  were 
dealing  faro  in  the  Oriental. 

To  the  onlooker  who  does  not  know  its  hazards  faro  is 
a  funereal  game.  The  dealer  slides  one  card  and  then  a 
second  from  the  box.  The  case-keeper  moves  a  button 
or  two  on  his  rack.  The  dealer  in  the  meantime  is  pay- 


94  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

ing  winners  and  collecting  chips  from  losers,  all  with  the 
utmost  listlessness.  In  his  high  chair  above  them  all 
the  lookout  leans  back  with  every  external  sign  of  world- 
weary  indifference.  And  the  players  settle  a  little 
lower  on  their  stools.  There  was  about  as  much  anima 
tion  in  the  Oriental  that  afternoon  as  there  is  in  a 
country  church  on  a  hot  Sunday  morning;  less  in  fact, 
for  there  was  no  preacher  present. 

Into  this  peaceful  quiet  came  the  sound  of  hoofbeats 
from  the  street.  It  stopped  abruptly.  Two  men  burst 
through  the  front  door  on  a  run.  The  players  looked 
around  and  the  faro-dealers  dropped  their  right  hands 
toward  the  open  drawers  where  they  kept  their  loaded 
pistols.  Jack  McCann  and  Johnny  Behind  the  Deuce 
had  arrived. 

But  before  the  prisoner  finished  his  story,  to  which 
he  did  not  devote  more  than  twenty  words  or  so,  a  man 
ran  into  the  Oriental  with  the  tidings  that  the  miners 
who  were  coming  off  shift  were  arming  themselves  as 
fast  as  they  left  the  cages.  The  rustlers  had  ridden  up 
the  hill  and  were  gathering  reinforcements. 

Wyatt  Earp  at  once  took  charge  of  the  affair.  He 
was  a  medium-sized  man  with  a  drooping  sandy  mus 
tache. 

"We  '11  close  up,  boys,"  he  said. 

The  show-down  had  come. 

Wyatt,  Virgil,  Morgan,  and  Jim  took  counsel.  Doc 
Holliday  advised  with  them.  A  handful  of  their  sup 
porters  stood  by  awaiting  their  decision.  All  others 
left;  the  neighborhood  was  no  healthy  place  for  non- 
combatants. 


TOMBSTONE'S  WILD  OATS  95 

The  Oriental  gambling-house  stood  on  Tombstone's 
main  street  at  the  intersection  of  a  cross  street.  Be 
cause  of  its  size  it  would  be  a  har'd  place  to  defend 
against  so  formidable  a  mob  as  this  which  was  now  mov 
ing  down  the  hill.  Several  doors  north  on  the  main 
street  and  on  the  opposite  side,  there  was  a  bowling- 
alley.  Its  narrowness  gave  that  building  a  strategic 
value.  They  took  Johnny  Behind  the  Deuce  there  and 
set  guards  at  both  ends. 

Wyatt  Earp  remained  alone  out  in  the  middle  of  the 
main  street  just  below  the  corner.  He  held  a  double- 
barreled  shotgun  over  the  crook  of  his  arm. 

The  ugly  sound  which  rises  from  a  mob  came  into 
the  deserted  thoroughfare ;  the  swift  tramp  of  many  feet, 
the  growl  of  many  voices.  More  than  three  hundred 
miners,  the  majority  of  whom  were  armed  with  rifles 
from  the  company's  arsenal,  and  the  fifty-odd  members 
of  the  Charleston  lynching  party  swept  into  Toughnut 
Street,  turned  the  corner,  and  rushed  down  the  cross 
street  toward  the  Oriental. 

They  reached  the  intersection  of  the  main  street,  and 
as  they  faced  the  closed  doors  of  the  Oriental  their  left 
flank  was  toward  Wyatt  Earp.  They  filled  the  road 
way  and  the  front  ranks  surged  upon  the  sidewalk  to 
ward  the  portals  of  the  gambling-house. 

Then  some  one  who  had  seen  the  prisoner  taken  to  the 
bowling-alley  shouted  the  tidings.  The  throng  changed 
front  in  the  instant  and  faced  the  solitary  man  who 
stood  there  a  few  yards  before  them. 

Wyatt  Earp  shifted  his  shotgun  into  his  two  hands 
and  held  it  as  a  trap-shooter  who  is  waiting  for  the 
clay  pigeons  to  rise. 


96  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

In  the  moment  of  discovery  the  mob  had  checked  it 
self,  confronting  him  as  one  man  confronts  another 
when  the  two  are  bitter  enemies  and  the  meeting  is  en 
tirely  unexpected.  There  followed  a  brief,  sharp  surge 
forward;  it  emanated  from  the  rear  ranks  and  moved 
in  a  wave  toward  the  front.  There  it  stopped.  And 
there  passed  a  flash  of  time  during  which  the  man  and 
the  mob  eyed  each  other. 

That  was  no  ordinary  lynching  party  such  as  some 
communities  see  in  these  days.  Its  numbers  included 
men  who  had  outfought  Apaches,  highwaymen,  and 
posses;  men  who  were  accustomed  to  killing  their  fel 
low  beings  and  inured  to  facing  death.  And  the 
hatred  of  the  Earp  brothers,  which  had  been  brewing 
during  all  these  months,  was  white-hot  now  within 
them. 

"Come  on/'  called  Wyatt  Earp,  and  added  an  epi 
thet. 

Above  the  mass  of  tossing  heads  the  muzzles  of  rifles 
were  bobbing  up  and  down.  The  trampling  of  feet 
and  the  shuffling  of  packed  bodies  made  a  dull  under- 
note.  Shouts  arose  from  many  quarters. 

"Goon!"    "Get  him!"    "Now,  boys!" 

Wyatt  Earp  threw  back  his  head  and  repeated  his 
challenge. 

"Come  on!"  He  flung  an  oath  at  them.  "Sure  you 
can  get  me.  But" — he  gave  them  the  supreme  insult 
of  that  wild  period's  profanity — "the  first  one  makes  a 
move,  I  '11  get  him.  Who  's  the  man?" 

Those  who  saw  him  that  afternoon  say  that  his  face 
was  white ;  so  white  that  his  drooping  mustache  seemed 


TOMBSTONE'S  WILD  OATS  97 

dark  in  contrast.  His  eyes  gleamed  like  ice  when  the 
sun  is  shining  on  it.  He  had  the  look  of  a  man  who  has 
put  his  life  behind  him ;  a  man  who  is  waiting  for  just 
one  thing  before  he  dies — to  select  the  ones  whom  he 
will  take  with  him. 

The  cries  behind  redoubled,  and  the  crowding  in 
creased  in  the  rear.  Some  leaped  on  the  backs  of  those 
before  them.  But  the  men  in  the  front  ranks — some  of 
them  were  bold  men  and  deadly — withstood  the  pres 
sure.  They  held  their  eyes  on  that  grim,  white  face, 
or  watched  the  two  muzzles  of  that  shotgun  which  he 
swept  back  and  forth  across  their  gaze  with  hypnotic 
effect. 

It  was  a  fine,  large  moment.  Any  one  of  them  could 
have  got  him  at  the  first  shot.  There  was  no  chance  of 
missing.  And  scores  yearned  to  get  him.  Undoubtedly 
he  had  attained  that  pitch  where  he  yearned  for  them 
to  do  it.  And  being  thus  to  all  intents  a  dead  man, — 
save  only  that  he  retained  the  faculty  of  killing, — he 
was  mightier  than  all  of  them. 

Those  in  the  front  ranks  were  beginning  to  slip  back ; 
and  as  these  escaped  his  presence  the  others,  who  had 
become  exposed  to  it,  struggled  against  the  pressure  of 
their  fellows  who  would  keep  them  in  that  position. 
Some  of  the  cooler  spirits  were  stealing  away.  The 
contagion  of  indifference  spread.  The  mob  was  melt 
ing. 

In  the  meantime  one  or  two  members  of  the  Earp 
faction  had  procured  a  team  and  wagon.  As  soon  as 
the  lynchers  had  dispersed  they  stowed  the  prisoner 
in  the  vehicle,  and  set  out  for  Tucson  with  a  heavy 


98  WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

guard.  But  there  was  no  pursuit.  The  reaction  which 
follows  perfervid  enthusiasm  of  this  sort  had  settled 
down  upon  the  miners  and  cow-boys.  Johnny  Behind 
the  Deuce  was  tried  before  the  district  court,  and — 
as  was  to  be  expected — he  was  acquitted. 

Time  went  on  and  dissensions  came  among  the  fol 
lowers  of  the  Earp  brothers.  Curly  Bill  and  John 
Ringo  were  among  the  first  to  fall  out  with  the  leaders, 
and  they  took  the  path  of  previous  exiles  to  Charles 
ton.  But  the  country  by  the  San  Pedro  was  being 
settled  up,  and  not  long  afterward  they  emigrated  to 
Galeyville  over  in  the  San  Simon  valley.  Thence 
forth  this  little  smelter  town  became  the  metropolis  of 
the  outlaws.  Ringo  spent  most  of  his  time  here  with 
occasional  trips  to  Tombstone,  where,  on  more  than 
one  occasion,  he  dared  the  Earps  to  try  to  take  him. 
They  did  not  accept  his  challenges.  Finally  he  died 
by  his  own  hand  and  his  friend  Curly  Bill  left  the 
country. 

In  the  meantime  new  secessions  were  taking  place  in 
the  Earp  following.  The  county  of  Cochise  had  been 
established.  Tombstone  was  made  the  county  seat. 
Johnny  Behan,  an  old-timer  and  an  Indian  fighter,  was 
the  first  sheriff.  He  was  hostile  to  the  city  administra 
tion  from  the  beginning.  Nor  was  that  all.  Lawyers 
came  into  the  town  and  henceforth — provided  a  dead 
man's  friends  had  money — killing  an  opponent  no 
longer  settled  a  dispute.  There  remained  such  com 
plications  as  indictment,  sworn  testimony,  and  the  jury. 
The  good  old  days  were  passing. 

Sheriff  Johnny  Behan  charged  the  Earps  with  partici 
pation  in  robberies  and  wilful  cognizance  of  murders. 


TOMBSTONE'S  WILD  OATS  99 

It  was  about  as  far  as  he  did  go  as  a  public  official.  The 
brothers  issued  profane  and  pointed  defiance  and  went 
on  dealing  faro. 

About  this  time  Frank  Stilwell  quarreled  with  the 
Earps  and  hastily  departed  from  Tombstone  And 
henceforth,  until  the  wind-up  of  the  ugly  affairs  that 
followed,  he  remained  at  large,  awaiting,  his  opportunity 
for  revenge. 

Sheriff  Behan  was  trying  to  get  some  good  charge  to 
bring  against  the  brothers,  and  various  lawyers — some 
of  them  widely  known  throughout  the  Southwest — were 
anxiously  awaiting  opportunity  to  appear  as  special 
prosecutors  when  the  Benson  stage  wras  held  up. 

The  Benson  stage  had  been  robbed  often  enough  be 
fore,  but  this  time  the  crime  brought  far-reaching  con 
sequences.  Bud  Philpots  was  driver  and  Bob  Paul, 
afterward  United  States  marshal,  was  shotgun  messen 
ger.  There  was  a  large  currency  shipment — some  eighty 
thousand  dollars — in  the  express-box.  The  stage  was 
full  inside  and  one  passenger,  a  Mexican,  was  riding 
on  top.  For  some  reason  or  other  Bob  Paul  had  taken 
the  reins  and  Philpots  was  sitting  in  his  place.  As 
the  vehicle  came  to  the  top  of  a  hill  the  robbers  showed 
themselves. 

The  old-timers  speak  of  the  conduct  of  the  highway 
men  with  profane  contempt  for  instead  of  shooting 
a  horse  or  two,  they  opened  fire  on  Bud  Philpots,  whom 
they  believed  from  his  position  to  be  the  messenger. 
They  killed  him  and  the  Mexican  passenger  who  was 
seated  behind  him.  But  the  team  took  fright  at  the 
noise  and  ran  away  and  the  eighty  thousand  dollars 
went  on  up  the  road  in  a  cloud  of  dust. 


100          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

Johnny  Behan,  the  sheriff,  said  that  the  Earp  broth 
ers  sent  Doc  Holliday  out  with  the  Clanton  brothers  to 
commit  the  crime. 

Ike  Clanton  said  that  he  was  rustling  cattle  at  the 
time  down  in  Mexico,  and  accused  the  Earps  of  sole  re 
sponsibility. 

The  Earps  in  turn  stated  that  the  Clanton  boys  were 
the  bandits. 

And  that  began  the  Earp-Clanton  feud. 

It  did  not  last  long,  but  there  was  much  happening 
while  it  was  going  on. 

The  Clanton  brothers,  Ike  and  Billy,  betook  them 
selves  to  their  ranch  and  gathered  their  friends  around 
them.  Frank  and  Tom  McLowrey  were  prominent 
among  these  allies.  And  now  the  statement  was  made 
in  Tombstone  that  the  members  of  this  faction  had 
promised  to  shoot  the  Earps  on  sight. 

One  October  evening  Ike  Clanton  came  to  town  with 
Tom  McLowery,  and  Virgil  Earp  arrested  the  two  on 
the  charge  of  disturbing  the  peace.  He  did  it  on  the 
main  street  and  disarmed  them  easily  enough.  The 
justice  of  the  peace,  whose  name  was  Spicer,  fined  the 
prisoners  fifty  dollars. 

The  next  morning  these  two  defendants  went  to  the 
0.  K.  corral  on  Fremont  Street,  where  they  had  put  up 
their  horses  the  night  before.  And  there  they  met  Bill 
Clanton  and  Frank  McLowery.  All  four  were  leading 
their  ponies  out  of  the  gate  when  Wyatt,  Virgil,  and 
Morgan  Earp,  together  with  Doc  Holliday,  confronted 
them. 

" Hands  up!"  Wyatt  ordered. 

The  shooting  began  at  once.     Holliday  killed   Tom 


TOMBSTONE'S  WILD  OATS         ,,,,101 

McLowery,  who  was  unarmed,  at  the  first  volley.  Billy 
Clanton  fell  mortally  wounded  but  continued  shooting 
up  to  his  last  gasp.  Frank  McLowery  got  a  bullet 
through  his  pistol  hand  but  shifted  his  weapon  to  the 
other  and  kept  on  firing  until  Morgan  Earp,  who  had 
fallen  with  a  ball  through  his  shoulder,  killed  him  from 
where  he  lay.  Ike  Clanton  jumped  a  high  fence  and 
fled. 

Justice  of  the  Peace  Spicer  held  an  examination  and 
exonerated  the  slayers  on  the  ground  that  they  had 
done  the  thing  in  performance  of  their  duty  as  officers, 
but  friends  of  the  Clantons  had  money.  Some  one  re 
tained  lawyers  to  assist  in  prosecuting  the  Earps.  The 
sheriff  saw  his  opportunity  and  became  active  getting 
testimony. 

And  then,  while  the  town  was  seething  with  gossip 
concerning  the  coming  trial,  Frank  Stilwell  stole  into 
Tombstone  with  a  half-breed  and  slew  Morgan  Earp,  who 
was  playing  billards  at  the  time.  The  murder  accom 
plished,  Stilwell  took  a  fast  horse  and  rode  to  Tucson. 
The  half-breed  fled  to  the  Dragoon  Mountains. 

The  next  day  the  thr'ee  surviving  Earp  brothers  and 
Doc  Holliday  started  for  California  with  Morgan's 
body.  At  dusk  that  evening  the  train  reached  Tucson. 
Now  Ike  Clanton  was  in  the  town,  out  on  bail  awaiting 
trial  for  a  stage-robbery.  And  Frank  Stilwell  was 
there.  It  was  no  more  than  natural  that  the  Earps 
should  keep  a  sharp  lookout  when  the  locomotive  stopped 
at  the  station. 

Their  vigilance  was  rewarded.  Stilwell  came  slipping 
through  the  shadows  just  as  the  train  was  pulling  out. 
The  passengers  in  the  Pullman  were  startled  by  a  crack- 


102       WH:EN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

ling  of  revolver  shots  from  the  rear  platform.  Directly 
afterward  the  Earps  came  back  inside  and  took  their 
seats.  And  Tucson  was  given  something  to  talk  about 
that  evening  by  the  discovery  of  Frank  Stilwell's  body 
riddled  with  bullets  beside  the  track. 

The  Earp  party  held  council  in  the  Pullman  and  de 
termined  to  return  to  Tombstone.  Leaving  Virgil  to 
complete  the  journey  with  Morgan's  body,  the  other  two 
brothers  and  Doc  Holliday  left  the  train  at  a  way  station 
and  flagged  a  freight  which  took  them  back  to  Ben 
son.  Here  they  procured  horses  and  rode  to  the  county 
seat. 

Sheriff  Johnny  Behan  received  telegraphic  advices 
from  Tucson  to  arrest  them.  He  found  the  trio  some 
time  in  the  afternoon.  They  had  got  their  effects  to 
gether  and  sent  them  ahead  on  a  wagon.  They  were 
themselves  on  horseback,  about  to  set  forth  for  Colorado. 

Wyatt  glanced  down  upon  the  sheriff  as  the  -latter 
came  up. 

''Listen,"  he  said.  "Don't  you  even  look  as  if  you 
wanted  to  arrest  us." 

And  with  that  the  three  rode  down  the  main  street. 
They  passed  the  saloons  and  gambling-houses,  and  men 
came  flocking  to  the  doors  to  see  them  go  by. 

At  the  running  walk  the  horses  came  on,  three  abreast ; 
the  faces  of  the  riders  were  set;  their  eyes  swept  the 
crowds  on  the  sidewalks.  They  went  on  by.  They 
turned  the  corner  into  the  road  that  leads  to  the  Dra 
goons.  That  was  the  last  that  Tombstone  eVer  saw  of 
them. 

They  stopped  at  Pete  Spence's  ranch,  where  the  half- 


TOMBSTONE'S  WILD  OATS  103 

breed  was  working  who  had  been  with  Frank  Stilwell  on 
the  evening  of  Morgan's  murder,  and  a  cow-boy  found 
the  man's  body  the  next  morning. 

They  rode  across  wide  flats  and  through  great  dark 
mountain  ranges,  eastward  and  to  the  north,  until  they 
came  into  Colorado. 

After  the  departure  of  these  bold  men  outlawry  took 
on  a  new  lease  of  life  in  southeastern  Arizona.  Cattle- 
rustling,  stage-robbery,  and  murder  went  on  throughout 
Cochise  County.  And  at  last  the  people  found  a  strong 
man,  to  whom  the  law  stood  for  something  more  than  a 
means  of  personal  power.  They  chose  for  sheriff  John 
Slaughter,  who  had  been  waging  war  for  years  on  his 
own  account  against  Apaches  and  bad  men.  But  the 
story  of  how  he  brought  the  enforcement  of  the  statutes 
into  Tombstone  is  too  long  to  tell  here,  although  it  is  a 
stirring  tale  and  colorful. 

Tombstone  to-day  stands  just  as  it  was  back  in  those 
wild  days  of  the  early  eighties;  just  as  it  was — the 
buildings  are  unchanged.  You  may  see  them  all,  and 
see  the  streets  as  they  looked  when  pistols  flamed  and 
men  died  hard  out  in  the  roadway. 

But  other  crowds  walk  those  streets  now.  And  somer- 
times  on  an  evening  you  will  see  automobiles  going  down 
the  block  with  family  parties  on  their  way  for  a  spin 
along  the  Benson  road  where  the  Clanton  boys,  Frank 
Stilwell,  John  Ringo,  and  the  other  bad  men  used  to 
rob  the  stages  in  daytime. 

On  such  an  evening,  should  you  travel  down  that 
highway,  you  may  see  the  leaping  light  of  a  bonfire 
by  which  a  group  of  young  people  are  toasting  marsh- 


104          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

mallows  on  the  summit  of  the  knoll  where  Ed  Schiefflin 
hid  from  the  passing  Apaches. 

Tombstone  is  peaceable  enough  to-day  for  any  man ; 
so  peaceable  that  one  finds  it  hard  to  believe  there  was 
a  time  when  the  town  had  a  man — or  more — for  break 
fast  every  morning. 


THE  SHOW-DOWN 

TN  the  early  days  of  Tombstone  when  miners  and  mer- 
•••  chants  and  cow-men  and  faro-dealers  and  outlaws 
were  drifting  into  Cochise  County  from  all  over  the 
West,  a  young  fellow  by  the  name  of  William  C. 
Breckenbridge  came  down  from  Colorado  to  the  new 
camp.  He  was,  so  the  old-timers  say,  one  of  those  small 
ish  men  who  can  wear  a  flannel  shirt  and  broad-brimmed 
hat  so  jauntily  that,  although  their  breeches  be  tucked 
into  their  boot-tops,  they  still  look  marvelously  neat ;  but 
while  he  could  come  through  a  hard  day's  ride  still 
suggesting  a  bandbox,  there  was  nothing  of  the  dandy 
about  him. 

His  people  had  staked  him  to  go  out  West  and  at 
their  suggestion  he  had  hunted  up  an  older  brother  in 
Colorado.  But  two  years  in  the  wide  reaches  of  the 
Platte  country,  where  the  monotony  of  teaming  was 
varied  by  occasional  brushes  with  the  Indians,  failed  to 
satisfy  his  spirit.  And  so  he  came  riding  down  into 
the.  flaring  valleys  of  the  Southwestern  border  along 
with  the  first  influx  of  adventurers. 

He  was  still  in  his  early  twenties  and  the  world  looked 
good  to  him ;  one  of  those  quiet  youths  who  preface  most 
remarks  with  a  smile  because,  all  other  things  being 
equal,  they  like  their  fellow-men. 

He  knocked  about  the  camp,  trying  this  thing  and 
that,  and  was  starting  in  at  mining  engineering  with  an 

105 


106          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

old  marine  compass  as  his  only  instrument  when  Johnny 
Behan,  who  was  newly  appointed  sheriff  by  the  gover 
nor,  gave  him  a  job  as  a  deputy.  Then  straightaway 
the  eyes  of  men  were  turned  upon  him,  and  the  query 
arose : 

"How  's  he  going  to  stack  up  when  it  comes  to  a 
show-down  ? ' ' 

Those  were  the  days,  you  understand,  when — to  in 
dulge  in  a  Scriptural  figure — he  who  took  up  the  sword 
must  be  prepared  to  perish  by  the  sword.  If  you 
buckled  on  a  gun  you  must  be  ready  to  draw  it,  and 
once  you  started  to  draw  it,  heaven  help  you  if  you  did 
not  reckon  on  going  through  with  the  play. 

A  man  could  get  by,  as  the  saying  has  it,  if  he  played 
the  part  of  a  neutral;  but  if,  on  the  one  hand,  you 
started  in  at  stealing  cattle  or  if,  on  the  other  hand,  you 
pinned  on  a  star — why  then,  sooner  or  later,  the  big 
issue  was  going  to  come  to  a  head;  you  were  going  to 
find  yourself  faced  by  a  foe  or  foes,  armed  like  yourself, 
and  like  yourself  prepared  to  shoot  it  out.  Then  when 
the  show-down  came  you  would  comport  yourself  ac 
cording  to  the  stuff  that  you  were  made  of — the  material 
which  was  hidden  away  deep  down  under  your  skin — 
and  according  to  your  conduct  the  world  would  judge 
you. 

So  naturally  enough  in  those  days  men  asked  this 
question  and  waited  for  events  to  bring  its  answer. 
And  those  among  them  who  were  not  gifted  with  the 
faculty  of  reading  character  but  needed  to  see  a  man 
for  themselves  when  the  guns  were  blazing — those  in 
dividuals  had  to  wait  a  long  time. 

As  for  the  others,  what  they  said  to  themselves  as  one 


THE  SHOW-DOWN  107 

adventure  followed  another  now  in  the  career  of  Billy 
Breckenbridge  you  who  read  these  wor"ds  can  judge,  if 
you  be  blessed  with  ordinary  perspicacity.  For  many 
things  took  place  and  many  months  went  by  before  he 
reached  down  along  his  lean  right  thigh  toward  the  butt 
of  his  forty-five  single-action  revolver. 

It  is  quite  likely  that  Johnny  Behan  was  among  those 
who  wanted  the  new  deputy  to  give  a  demonstration 
of  the  stuff  he  was  made  of.  Perhaps  that  was  the  rea 
son  the  sheriff  sent  young  Breckenbridge  over  into  the 
eastern  end  of  the  county  to  collect  the  taxes  before  the 
latter  had  worn  his  star  long  enough  to  get  used  to  it. 

In  those  days  the  sheriff's  office  levied  assessments 
and  did  the  collecting  on  personal  property  at  the  same 
time.  Payments  were  made  in  cash;  bank-checks  were 
virtually  unknown  in  Cochise  County.  And  thus  far 
the  country  east  of  the  Dragoon  Mountains  had  yielded 
no  revenues  for  the  simple  reason  that  it  looked  as  if 
nothing  short  of  a  troop  of  cavalry  could  go  forth  into 
that  region  and  return  again  with  the  money. 

Beyond  those  rocky  peaks  which  frowned  across  the 
mesquite  flat  at  Tombstone  lay  other  ragged  mountain 
ranges;  the  Chiracahuas,  the  Dos  Cabezas,  the  Swiss- 
helms,  and  the  Grahams.  Between  their  towering  walls 
the  valleys  of  the  Sulphur  Springs  and  the  San  Simon 
stretched  away  and  away  southward  across  the  Mexican 
border  great  tawny  plains  pulsating  under  the  hot  sun. 

Upon  their  level  floors  the  heat-devils  danced  all 
the  long  days  like  armies  of  phantom  dervishes  gone 
mad  with  their  interminable  leapings  and  whirlings. 
And  strange  grotesque  mirages  climbed  up  into  the  glar 
ing  heavens.  A  savage  land  wherein  savage  men  rode, 


108          WHEN  THE  WEST  V7AS  YOUNG 

as  packs  of  gray  wolves  range  in  the  wintertime  when 
meat  is  scarce,  searching  the  distant  sky-line  for  some 
sign  of  life  on  which  to  prey. 

For  this  was  no-man's-land.  Bands  of  renegade 
Apaches  lurked  among  its  empurpled  peaks.  Com 
panies  of  Mexican  smugglers  came  northward  through 
its  steep-walled  border  canons  driving  their  laden  burros 
to  lonely  rendezvous  where  hard-eyed  traders  awaited 
them  with  pack-mules  loaded  down  with  dobie  dollars. 
A  few  lonely  ranch-houses  where  there  was  water  in  the 
lowlands;  in  the  mountains  a  sawmill  or  two  and  some 
far-flung  mines;  here  the  habitations  were  like  arsenals. 
Honest  men  must  go  armed  to  work  and  sleep  with  arms 
by  their  bedsides,  and  even  then  it  was  advisable  for 
them  to  ask  no  questions  of  those  who  rode  up  to  their 
cabins. 

And  it  was  best  for  them  to  make  no  protests  at  what 
such  guests  did  unto  their  own  or  the  property  of  others. 
For  since  the  days  when  the  first  semblances  of  law  had 
come  to  Tombstone  this  region  had  been  the  sanctuary 
of  the  bad  men. 

When  you  crossed  the  summits  of  the  Dragoon  Moun 
tains  you  were  beyond  the  pale.  Hither  the  stage-rob 
ber  came,  riding  hard  when  the  list  of  his  crimes  had 
grown  too  long.  The  murderer,  the  rustlerr  and  the  out 
law  spurred  their  ponies  on  eastward  when  the  valley 
of  the  San  Pedro  was  too  hot  for  them  and  took  refuge 
here  among  their  kind.  On  occasion  the  bolder  ones 
among  them  ventured  back  to  show  themselves  on  Tomb 
stone's  streets  or  swagger  into  Charleston's  dancehalls; 
but  never  for  long  and  never  unless  they  were  traveling 
in  formidable  groups. 


THE  SHOW-DOWN  109 

And  then  sooner  or  later  they  would  slip  away  again 
to  the  wild  passes  and  the  long  and  lonely  valley  flats 
where  there  was  no  law  excepting  that  which  a  man 
carried  in  his  pistol-holster.  One  after  another  those 
who  were  * '  short ' '  in  other  places  had  drifted  before  the 
winds  of  public  opinion  to  gather  in  this  eastern  end 
of  Cochise  County,  where  two  whose  qualities  of  dead- 
liness  surpassed  those  of  all  the  rest  were  recognized, 
because  of  that  superior  ability  at  killing,  as  the  big  '  *  He 
Wolves."  These  two  were  Curly  Bill  and  John  Ringo. 

When  they  were  not  leading  their  followers  in  some 
raid  against  the  herds  of  border  cattlemen,  or  lying  in 
wait  to  ambush  one  of  the  armed  bands  of  smugglers,  or 
standing  up  the  stage,  these  two  were  usually  to  be  found 
in  Galeyville.  You  will  not  see  Galeyville  named  now 
adays  on  the  map  of  Arizona  and  if  you  look  ever  so 
long  through  the  San  Simon  country,  combing  down  the 
banks  of  Turkey  Creek  ever  so  closely,  you  will  not  dis 
cover  so  much  as  a  fragment  of  crumbling  adobe  wall  to 
show  that  the  town  ever  existed. 

But  it  did  exist  during  the  early  eighties  and  its 
life  was  noisy  enough  for  any  man.  There  came  a  day 
when  the  neighboring  mines  shut  down  and  the  little 
smelter  which  furnished  a  livelihood  for  the  honest 
members  of  the  population  went  out  of  business;  later 
the  Apaches  erased  everything  that  was  combustible 
from  the  landscape  and  the  elements  finished  the  busi 
ness. 

But  when  John  Ringo  and  Curly  Bill  held  forth  in 
Galeyville  there  was  a  cattle-buyer  in  the  place  who  did 
a  brisk  business  because  he  asked  no  embarrassing  ques 
tions  concerning  brands.  Which  brought  many  a  hard- 


110          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

eyed  rustler  thither  and  sent  many  a  dollar  spinning 
over  the  battered  bars. 

Such  were  the  eastern  end  of  Coehise  County  and  its 
metropolis  when  Johnny  Behan  told  young  Billy 
Breckenbridge  to  cross  the  Dragoons  and  collect  taxes 
throughout  that  section.  If  he  expected  a  protest  he 
was  mistaken,  for  Breckenbridge  took  the  bidding  with 
his  usual  good-natured  smile.  And  if  the  sheriff  looked 
for  a  request  for  a  posse  he  was  disappointed.  The  new 
deputy  saddled  up  his  horse  one  morning  and  rode  forth 
alone,  trim  and  neat  as  usual  and,  for  all  that  any  one 
could  see,  without  a  care  on  his  mind. 

He  rode  up  the  wide  main  street  which  bisects  Tomb 
stone  from  end  to  end,  descended  the  hill  and  started 
his  horse  across  the  flatlands  toward  the  ragged  pin 
nacles  of  Coehise 's  stronghold. 

Eastward  he  rode  through  tall  mesquite  thickets,  over 
rolling  hills  where  clumps  of  bear-grass  grew  among 
spiked  yuccas  and  needle-pointed  tufts  of  Spanish 
bayonet,  and  climbed  the  pass  beyond.  From  its 
summit  he  looked  down  upon  the  wide  reaches  of  the 
Sulphur  Springs  valley,  level  as  a  floor,  as  tawny  as  a 
lion's  skin. 

Then  he  descended  from  the  sky-lined  pinnacles  of 
granite  to  the  plain.  Under  the  blazing  heavens  pony 
and  rider  showed  upon  that  glowing  surface  as  a  tiny 
dot ;  a  dot  that  moved  slowly  on  and  on  until  the  yellow- 
brown  carpet  of  the  bunch-grass  came  to  an  end  and  was 
replaced  by  a  gleaming  sheet  of  alkali.  Before  that 
crawling  dot  the  mirage  wavered  and  undulated  like  a 
weirdly  painted  back-drop  stirring  in  the  wind. 

The   dot   crept    on,    took   strange   new   shapes   that 


THE  SHOW-DOWN  111 

changed  phantasmally,  then  vanished  behind  the 
curtain  of  which  for  a  passing  moment  it  had  been  a 
part.  Thus  young  Breckenbridge  rode  beyond  the 
dominion  of  the  written  law  and  was  swallowed  up  by 
no-man  's-land. 

When  he  had  started  forth  from  Tombstone  he  merely 
knew  his  errand;  he  owned  no  plan.  Now  as  the 
splendid  star-lit  nights  followed  the  long,  blazing  days 
he  began  to  see  a  course  of  action  and  this  led  him  on, 
until  one  day  he  came  down  into  the,  San  Simon  country 
and  rode  into  the  town  of  Galeyville. 

The  enterprising  citizen  whose  cattle-buying  business 
helped  to  keep  dollars  spinning  across  the  bars  of  this 
outlaw  metropolis  was  mildly  curious  when  young 
Breckenbridge  introduced  himself  that  afternoon.  The 
presence  of  a  sheriff's  deputy  was  enough  to  set  any  one 
to  thinking  in  those  days. 

His  curiosity  gave  way  to  unspoken  wonder  as  the 
caller  unfolded  his  mission  and  stated  the  name  of  the 
man  whom  he  wanted  to  see.  Anyhow,  this  meeting 
promised  to  be  worth  while  witnessing;  the  cattle-buyer 
said  as  much. 

"Reckon  we'll  find  him  up  the  street  right  now,"  he 
added,  and  led  the  way  to  a  near-by  saloon. 

There  were  a  number  of  men  in  the  place  when  the 
pair  entered;  a  quintet  playing  cards,  and  as  many 
others  scattered  about  a  quiet  pool-game.  And  one 
burly  fellow  was  lying  on  a  poker-table,  curled  up  for 
all  the  world  like  a  sleeping  dog.  Now  and  then  one  of 
the  gamblers  would  lift  his  head  to  take  a  look  at  the 
new-comers,  and  for  a  brief  instant  young  Brecken 
bridge  would  find  himself  gazing  into  a  pair  of  hard, 


112          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

steady  eyes.  Then  the  eyes  would  be  lowered  and  the 
player  would  go  on  with  the  game. 

It  was  during  this  uncomfortable  interval  of  general 
sizing-up  that  the  proprietor  entered,  a  red-faced  man 
and  short  of  stature.  He  had  been  out  to  get  a  bucket 
of  water;  he  set  the  pail  down  by  the  end  of  the  bar  and 
filled  a  tin  cup  from  it. 

"Here's  how,  boys,"-  he  said  with  loud  facetious- 
ness,  and  lifte'd  the  cup. 

The  burly  man,  who  had  apparently  been  awakened 
by  the  words,  uncoiled  himself,  came  to  crouch  with  one 
arm  supporting  his  body  on  the  table-top  and — all  in 
the  same  lithe  movement — drew  his  big-caliber  revolver 
from  the  holster. 

"Don't  drink  that  stuff.  It  's  pizen,"  he  shouted, 
and  with  the  last  word  his  weapon  flamed. 

The  tin  cup  flew  from  the  saloon  man's  hand.  A 
shout  of  laughter  rose  from  the  crowd  at  the  two  games ; 
then  the  pool-balls  clicked  again  and — 

"Raise  you  ten,"  a  poker-player  said. 

Breckenbridge 's  guide  beckoned  to  the  man  who  had 
done  the  shooting.  He  came  across  the  room,  shoving 
his  gun  back  into  the  holster,  a  rather  thickly  built  man 
but  well-knit  and  there  was  a  soft  spring  in  his  slowest 
movements  which  suggested  snake-like  quickness.  He 
was  dark-eyed,  and  his  hair  was  a  mat  of  close  black 
curls.  The  cattle-buyer  nodded,  to  indicate  the  intro 
duced  one. 

"This,"  he  said,  "is  Mr.  Breckenbridge,  one  of 
Johnny  Behan's  deputies." 

And— 


THE  SHOW-DOWN  113 

''This  is  Curly  Bill." 

Young  Breckenbridge  smiled  as  usual  and  stretched 
forth  his  right  hand.  But  the  eyes  of  Curly  Bill  were 
narrow  and  his  hand  came  out  slowly.  There  was  that 
in  his  whole  manner  which  said  he  was  on  guard, 
watching  every  movement  of  the  deputy. 

And  for  this  there  was  good  reason.  It  was  not  long 
since  Curly  Bill  had  stood  in  very  much  the  same  atti 
tude  on  Tombstone's  street  facing  Town  Marshal  White, 
the  only  difference  being  that  his  right  hand  on  that  oc 
casion  had  been  proffering  his  pistol,  butt  foremost,  to 
the  officer.  And  in  the  passing  of  the  instant  while 
Marshal  White  had  touched  the  weapon  with  his  finger 
tips  the  forty-five  had  swiftly  reversed  ends,  to  spit 
forth  one  leaden  slug. 

The  officer  had  dropped  in  the  dust  of  the  roadway 

and  Curly  Bill  had  ridden  out  of  town  with  a  thousand 

]  dollars  on  his  head.     A  thousand  dollars  was  a  thousand 

dollars  and  there  was  no  telling  what  a  man  who  wore 

a  nickel-plated  star  might  have  up  his  sleeve. 

1  'Mr.  Breckenbridge,"  the  cattle-buyer  said  as  the 
tw^o  palms  met,  "is  here  on  civil  business." 

The  eyes  of  Curly  Bill  resumed  their  normal  shape. 
His  fingers  tightened  over  the  deputy's. 

"Howdy,"  he  said.     "What  yo'  going  to  have?" 

While  the  sting  of  the  cow-town  whisky  was  still 
rankling  in  their  throats  a  man  entered  the  front  door. 

"Oh,  Bill,"  he  called  across  the  room,  "your  hoss  is 
daid." 

Deserting  the  bar  to  delve  into  this  mystery,  they 
found  the  outlaw's  pony  stretched  out  beside  the 


114          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

hitching-rack  near  the  rear  of  the  building.  The  owner 
cast  one  glance  at  the  dead  animal;  then  his  eyes  went 
to  a  shattered  window. 

" 'Twas  when  I  shot  that  cup  from  Shorty's  hand." 

He  shrugged  his  big  shoulders  and,  with  a  grin — 

"  Plenty  more  good  ponies  in  the  valley — and  the 
nights  are  moonlight  now." 

When  they  were  back  facing  the  battered  bar  young 
Breckenbridge  explained  his  business  in  no-man's- 
land. 

' '  And  this  end  of  the  county, ' '  he  wound  up,  ' '  is  sort 
of  rough.  If  I  'd  ride  around  alone,  packing  that 
money,  somebody  's  liable  to  get  the  best  of  me  when 
I  'm  not  looking  for  it.  I  've  got  to  have  a  good  man 
along  to  help  take  care  of  that  roll.  And  I  'd  admire  to 
have  you  make  the  trip  with  me." 

Curly  Bill  was  a  great  deal  slower  at  thinking  than  he 
was  at  drawing  his  gun  and  there  was  much  food  for 
thought  in  that  bold  proposition.  He  gazed  at  young 
Breckenbridge  for  some  moments  in  silence.  Gradually 
his  lips  relaxed.  Smiling,  he  turned  and  addressed  the 
occupants  of  the  room. 

1  'Boys,"  he  cried,  "line  up." 

And  when  the  line  was  formed  before  the  bar  he 
waved  his  hand. 

"This  here  's  the  deputy  sheriff,  come  to  collect  the 
taxes  in  our  end  of  the  county ;  and  I  aim  to  help  him  do 
the  job  up  right." 

By  what  means  Curly  Bill  supplied  himself  with  a 
new  pony  this  chronicler  does  not  know.  But  it  is  a 
fact  that  the  outlaw  rode  forth  from  Galeyville  the  next 
day  along  with  Johnny  Behan's  deputy,  to  guide  the 


THE  SHOW-DOWN  115 

latter  through  the  Sulphur  Springs  valley  and  the  San 
Simon — and  to  guard  the  county's  funds. 

Travel  was  slow  in  those  days;  accommodations  were 
few  and  far  between.  Outlaw  and  deputy  jogged  down 
the  long,  glaring  flats  enshrouded  in  the  dust-fog  which 
rose  from  their  ponies'  hoofs;  mile  after  mile  of  weary 
riding  under  a  scorching  sun.  They  climbed  by 
winding  trails  through  narrow  canons  where  the  heat 
waves  jigged  endlessly  among  the  naked  rocks.  They 
camped  by  lonely  water-hotes  and  shared  each  other's 
blankets  under  the  big  yellow  stars. 

By  day  they  watched  the  sky-line  seeking  the  slightest 
sign  of  moving  forms ;  by  night  they  kept  their  weapons 
within  easy  reach  and  slept  lightly,  awakening  to  the 
smallest  sound.  They  scanned  the  earth  for  tracks  and, 
when  they  found  them,  read  them  with  the  suspicion 
born  of  knowledge  of  the  country's  savagery. 

And  sometimes  other  riders  came  toward  them  out  of 
the  desert  to  pass  on  and  to  vanish  in  the  hazy  distance ; 
men  who  spoke  but  few  words  and  watched  the  right 
hands  of  the  two  riders  as  they  talked.  But  none  at 
tacked  them  or  made  a  show  toward  hostility.  Now  and 
again  the  pair  stopped  at  a  ranch-house  or  a  mine  where 
Breckenbridge  added  to  the  county's  money  in  his 
saddle-bags. 

And  as  the  days  wore  on,  each  with  its  own  share  of 
mutual  hardship  to  bring  these  two  to  closer  companion 
ship,  they  began,  as  men  will  under  such  circumstances, 
to  unfold  their  separate  natures.  Under  the  long  trail's 
stern  necessity  they  bared  to  each  other  those  traits 
which  would  have  remained  hidden  during  years  of  ac 
quaintance  among  a  city's  tight-walled  streets. 


116          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

A  carelessly  spoken  word  dropped  at  hot  noontide 
when  the  water  in  the  canteens  had  given  out  j  a  sincere 
oath,  uttered  by  the  fire  at  supper-time;  a  long,  drowsy 
conversation  as  they  lay  in  their  blankets  with  the 
tang  of  the  night  breeze  in  their  nostrils,  gazing  up 
at  the  splendor  of  the  flaming  stars;  until  they  knew 
each  other  man  to  man — and  Curly  Bill  began  to  feel 
something  like  devotion  to  his  purposeful  young  com 
panion.  Thenceforth  he  talked  freely  of  his  deeds  and 
misdeeds. 

"Only  one  man  that  ever  got  the  drop  on  me,"  the 
outlaw  said  one  evening  when  they  were  lying  on  their 
blankets,  enjoying  the  long  inhalations  from  their  after- 
supper  cigarettes,  "and  that  was  ol'  Jim  Burnett  over 
in  Charleston,  two  years  ago." 

He  paused  a  moment  to  roll  another  smoke.  A  coy 
ote  clamored  shrilly  beyond  the  next  rise;  a  horse  blew 
luxuriously  feeding  in  the  bunch-grass.  Curly  Bill 
launched  into  his  tale. 

"He  was  justice  of  the  peace  and  used  to  hold  co't 
in  those  days  whenever  he  'd  run  on  to  a  man  he  wanted. 
Always  packed  a  double-barrel  shotgun  and  he  'd  us 
ually  managed  to  throw  it  down  on  a  fellow  while  he 
tried  the  case  and  named  the  fine. 

"Well,  me  and  some  of  the  boys  was  in  town  this 
time  and  things  was  slack.  Come  a  Sunday  evenin '  and 
I  heard  how  some  married  folks  had  started  up  a  church. 
I  hadn't  been  inside  of  one  since  I  could  remember 
and  we  all  made  up  our  minds  to  go  and  see  what  it  was 
like. 

"Things  had  opened  up  when  we  come  into  the  door 


THE  SHOW-DOWN  117 

and  we  took  our  seats  as  quiet  as  we  could,  But  the 
jingle  of  our  spurs  made  some  people  in  the  congregation 
— the'  wasn't  more'n  a  dozen  of  'em — look  around. 
And  of  co'se  they  knew  us  right  away.  So,  pretty 
quick  one  or  two  gets  up  and  leaves,  and  soon  after 
ward  some  more,  until  first  thing  we  knew  our  bunch 
was  all  the'  was  stickin'  it  out. 

II  Along  about  that  time  the  preacher  decided  he  'd 
quit  too,  and  he  was  edging  off  to  head  for  the  back 
door  when  *I  got  up  and  told  him  to  stop.     Folks  said 
afterwards  that  I  throwed  down  my  fo'ty-five  on  him 
but  that  was  n  't  so.     Was  n  't  any  need  of  a  gun-play. 
I  only  said  that  we  'd  come  to  see  this  deal  out  and 
we  meant  to  have  it  to  the  turning  of  the  last  card 
and  if  he  'd  go  ahead  everything  would  be  all  right. 

"So  he  did,  and  give  out  a  hymn  and  the  boys  stood 
up  and  sang;  and  he  preached  a  sermon,  taking  advan 
tage  of  the  chanc't  to  light  into  us  pretty  rough.  Then 
it  come  time  for  passin7  round  the  hat  and  I  '11  bet  the 
reg'lar  congregation  never  done  half  so  well  by  the 
collection  as  we  did. 

"Well,  sir,  next  mo'nin'  I  was  sittin'  in  front  of  the 
hotel  in  the  shade  of  those  big  cottonwoods,  sort  of 
dozing,  having  been  up  kind  of  late  after  the  church- 
going;  and  the  first  thing  I  knew  somebody  was  say 
ing— 

"  'Hanzup.' 

I 1 1  opened  my  eyes  and  here  was  ol '  Jim  Burnett  with 
that   double-barrel    shotgun   throwed   down    on   me,    I 
knew  there  was  no  use  tryin'  to  get  the  play  away 
from  him,  either;  only  a  day  or  two  before  that  he  'd 


118          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

stuck  up  Johnny  Barker  and  fined  him  a  bunch  of 
three-year-old  steers  for  shootin'  up  the  town.  So  I 
obeyed  orders  and — 

"  'Curly  Bill/  says  he,  'yo'  're  tried  herewith  and 
found  guilty  of  disturbin'  the  peace  at  the  Baptis' 
Church  last  evenin';  and  the  sentence  of  this  co't  is 
twenty-five  dollars'  fine.' 

"I  shelled  out  then  and  there  and  glad  to  do  it,  too. 
Them  two  muzzles  was  lookin'  me  right  between  the 
eyes  all  the  while." 

Up  in  the  San  Simon  country  they  ran  short  of  grub 
and  after  going  two  days  on  scanty  rations — 

"The'  's  a  canon  fifteen  miles  south  of  here,"  the 
outlaw  said.  "I  reckon  some  of  the  boys  might  be 
camping  there  now." 

They  rode  hard  that  afternoon  and  reached  the  place 
some  time  before  sundown.  The  boys  of  whom  Curly 
Bill  had  spoken  were  there  all  right,  ten  of  them,  and 
none  of  the  number  but  was  known  at  the  time  over 
in  Tombstone  either  as  a  rustler  or  a  stage-robber.  His 
guide  introduced  Breckenbridge  with  the  usual  terse 
ness  of  such  ceremonies  among  his  kind. 

Whatever  of  constraint  there  was  at  the  beginning 
wore  away  during  the  progress  of  the  evening,  and  on 
the  next  morning  before  they  left  the  gorge  the  young 
deputy  worked  his  way  into  the  good  graces  of  his 
hosts  by  winning  twenty  dollars  from  them  shooting 
at  a  mark. 

By  this  time  they  were  nearing  the  end  of  their  tour 
and  it  was  only  a  few  days  later,  when  they  were  cros 
sing  the  Sulphur  Springs  valley  toward  the  frowning 
Dragoons,  that  Curly  Bill  bestowed  a  final  confidence 


THE  SHOW-DOWN  119 

upon  his  companion.  They  were  nooning  at  the  time 
and  somehow  or  other  the  usual  question  of  revolver- 
handling  had  come  up. 

"I  'm  goin'  to  tell  yo'-all  something,"  said  Curly 
Bill,  "that  mebbe  it  will  come  in  handy  to  remember. 
Now  here." 

He  drew  his  forty-five  and  held  it  forth  butt  fore 
most  in  his  right  hand. 

"Don't  ever  go  to  take  a  man's  gun  that-a-way,"  he 
went  on,  "for  when  yo'  are  figuring  that  yo'  have  the 
drop  on  him  and  he  is  makin'  the  play  to  give  it  up — 
Jest  reach  out  now  to  get  it." 

Breckenbridge  reached  forth  with  his  right  hand. 
The  outlaw  smiled.  His  trigger-finger  glided  inside  the 
guard;  there  was  a  sudden  wrist  movement  and  the  re 
volver  whirled  end  for  end.  Its  muzzle  was  pressing 
against  the  deputy's  waist-band. 

"Did  it  slow  so  's  you  could  see,"  said  Curly  Bill. 
"Now  yo'  understand." 

And  Breckenbridge  nodded,  knowing  now  the  man 
ner  in  which  Marshal  White  had  met  his  death  on 
the  day  when  his  companion  had  fled  from  the 
law. 

In  no-man's-land  they  shook  hands  at  parting. 

"So-long,"  said  Curly  Bill.    "See  you  later.7' 

And  the  deputy  answered  with  like  brevity,  then 
rode  on  to  Tombstone.  Those  who  had  banked  on  the 
big  issue  wherein  Breckenbridge  would  smell  the  other 
man's  powder-smoke  were  disappointed.  And  the^e 
were  some  among  them  who  shook  their  heads  when  the 
young  fellow's  name  was  mentioned,  saying,  as  they  had 
said  in  the  beginning: 


120          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 


till  the  show-down  comes;  then  we  '11  see  how 
he  stacks  up." 

But  Sheriff  Johnny  Behan  was  open  in  his  rejoic 
ings.  For  the  sheriff's  enemies  were  many  and  some 
of  them  were  powerful,  and  his  conduct  in  office 
was  being  subjected  to  a  great  deal  of  harsh  criticism, 
oftentimes,  it  must  be  admitted,  with  entire  justice.  So 
when  the  smiling  young  deputy  returned  from  a  region 
where  Cochise  County  had  hitherto  been  unable  to 
gather  any  taxes,  and  deposited  a  sum  wherein  every 
property-owner  in  that  region  was  properly  represented, 
here  was  good  news  with  which  to  counteract  accusa 
tions  of  laxity. 

And  that  was  not  all.  As  far  as  law  and  order  went, 
the  country  east  of  the  Dragoons  was  a  foreign  land; 
and  when  Breckenbridge  had  told  the  story  of  his  jour- 
neyings  with  Curly  Bill,  explaining  how  the  outlaw 
had  been  zealous  in  nosing  out  those  citizens  whose 
property  was  assessable,  how  he  had  safeguarded  the 
county's  money,  then  the  sheriff  saw  how  he  had  on 
his  force  one  whom  he  could  use  to  good  account. 

Other  officials  were  unable  to  carry  the  law  into  no- 
man's-land;  but  he  had,  thenceforth,  aN:  least  an  envoy. 
And  he  knew  that  there  would  be  times  when  diplo 
matic  representation  was  going  to  come  in  very  handy. 

From  that  day  on,  when  anything  came  up  in  the 
Sulphur  Springs  valley  or  in  the  San  Simon,  Billy 
Breckenbridge  was  despatched  to  attend  to  the  matter. 
Time  and  again  he  made  the  journey  until  the  cow-men 
in  the  lowlands  came  to  know  his  face  well;  until  the 
sight  of  a  deputy  sheriff's  star  was  no  longer  an  un 
wonted  spectacle  in  Galeyville.  And  as  the  months 


THE  SHOW-DOWN  121 

went  by  he  enlarged  the  list  of  his  acquaintances  among 
the  outlaws. 

But  his  errands  were  for  the  most  part  concerned 
with  civil  matters.  Now  and  again  there  was  a  war 
rant  for  stock-rustling,  but  the  rustlers  carried  on  their 
business  in  the  open  at  that  time  and  there  were  few 
who  dared  to  testify  against  them.  Bail  was  always 
arranged  by  the  accommodating  cattle-buyer  at  Galey- 
ville,  so  that  such  arrests  invariably  turned  out  to  be 
amicable  affairs. 

Among  those  who  were  sitting  back  and  waiting  for 
the  big  show-down  there  was  a  little  stir  of  anticipation 
when  young  Breckenbridge  rode  forth  armed  with  a 
warrant  for  John  Ringo.  For  Ringo  was  a  bad  man 
of  larger  caliber  than  even  Curly  Bill.  He  was  the 
brains  of  the  outlaws,  and  the  warrant  charged  high 
way  robbery. 

But  the  thrill  died  away  when  the  deputy  came  rid 
ing  back  with  his  man ;  and  there  was  something  like  dis 
gust  among  the  waiting  ones  when  it  was  learned  that 
the  prisoner  had  stayed  behind  in  Galey ville  to  arrange 
some  of  his  affairs  and  had  ridden  hard  to  catch  up  with 
his  captor  at  tfye  Sulphur  Springs  ranch. 

Anticipation  flamed  again  a  little  later  and  it  looked 
as  if  there  was  good  reason  for  it.  For  this  time  it  was 
a  stolen  horse  and  Breckenbridge  had  set  forth  to  re 
cover  the  animal.  A  rustler  might  be  willing  to  go 
through  the  formalities  of  giving  bail  at  the  county 
court-house,  or  even  to  stand  trial,  but  when  it  came 
to  turning  over  stolen  property — and  doing  it  without 
a  struggle — that  was  another  matter.  Moreover,  this 
horse,  which  had  been  taken  from  the  Contention  Mine, 


122          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

was  a  thoroughbred,  valued  high  and  coveted  by  many  a 
man.  There  was  good  ground  for  believing  that  the 
fellow  who  had  made  oft'  with  him  would  put  up  a  fight 
before  letting  him  go  again. 

Now  when  he  left  Tombstone  on  this  mission  Johnny 
Behan's  young  diplomatic  representative  was  riding  a 
rented  pony,  his  own  mount  being  fagged  out  from  a 
previous  journey;  and  this  fact  has  its  bearing  on  the 
story  later  on.  The  wild  country  is  always  easier 
ground  in  which  to  trace  a  fugitive  or  stolen  property 
than  the  crowded  places  for  the  simple  reason  that  its 
few  inhabitants  are  likely  to  notice  every  one  who  passes ; 
besides  which  there  are  few  travelers  to  obliterate  tracks. 

And  Breckenbridge  learned  before  he  had  gone  very 
many  miles  that  the  badly  wanted  horse  was  headed  in 
the  direction  of  the  McLowery  ranch.  The  McLowery 
boys  were  members  of  the  Clanton  gang  of  rustlers  and 
stage-robbers.  It  did  not  need  a  Sherlock  Holmes  to 
figure  out  the  probabilities  of  where  that  horse  was 
being  pastured  now.  Breckenbridge  pressed  on  to  the 
McLowery  place. 

Night  had  fallen  when  he  arrived  and  the  barking  of 
many  dogs  heralded  his  approach  to  all  the  surrounding 
country.  Breckenbridge  knew  the  McLowery  boys  well, 
as  well  as  he  knew  the  Clantons  and  a  dozen  other  out 
laws,  which  was  well  enough  to  call  one  another  by 
their  first  names. 

But  these  were  ticklish  times.  The  big  Earp-Clanton 
feud  was  nearing  its  climax.  The  members  of  the  lat 
ter  faction- — several  of  whom  were  wanted  on  Federal 
warrants  -which  charged  them  with  stage-robbery — were 
keeping  pretty  well  holed  up,  as  the  saying  is,  and  it 


THE  SHOW-DOWN  123 

was  not  unlikely  that  if  any  of  them  were  in  the  ranch- 
house  at  the  time,  the  visitor  who  was  not  extremely 
skilful  in  announcing  himself  would  be  shot  first  and 
questioned  afterward. 

So  when  Billy  Breckenbridge  came  to  the  house 
he  did  not  draw  rein  but  kept  right  on  as  if  he 
were  riding  past.  Fortune  had  favored  him  by  in 
terposing  in  his  path  an  enormous  puddle,  almost  a 
pond,  the  overflow  from  a  broken  irrigation  ditch. 
He  pulled  up  at  this  obstacle  and  hallooed  loudly. 

"Any  way  through  here?"  he  shouted.  "This  is 
Breckenbridge. ' ' 

A  moment's  silence,  and  then  a  streak  of  light  showed 
where  the  front  door  had  been  opened  a  crack. 

"Sit  quiet  on  that  there  hoss,"  a  gruff  voice  com 
manded,  "and  lemme  see  if  you  ~be  Breckenbridge." 

"Hallo,  Bill,"  the  deputy  sheriff  answered.  "Yes, 
it  's  me  all  right." 

And  Curly  Bill  opened  the  door  wider,  revealing  his 
burly  form. 

"Put  up  yo'r  pony  in  the  corral,"  he  said,  "and 
come  in." 

When  Breckenbridge  had  complied  with  the  last 
part  of  the  invitation  he  found  the  bare  room  filled 
with  men.  The  McLowery  boys  were  there,  two  of 
them,  and  the  Clantons.  Half  a  dozen  other  outlaws 
were  lounging  about,  and  Curly  Bill  himself  was 
looking  none  too  pleasant  as  he  nodded  to  the  visi 
tor. 

"Cain't  tell  who  might  come  ridin'  in  these  nights," 
he  growled  by  way  of  explanation  for  his  curt  welcome. 
' '  Set  up  and  eat  a  bite  now  yo '  're  here. ' ' 


124          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

The  lateness  of  the  meal  and  the  general  dishevel- 
ment  of  the  room's  occupants  made  it  clear  to  the  guest 
that  every  one  had  been  riding  hard  that  day.  It  was 
an  awkward  moment  and  the  constraint  endured  long 
after  the  last  man  had  shoved  back  his  chair  and  rolled 
his  brown-paper  cigarette. 

Curly  Bill  found  an  opportunity  to  get  young  Breck 
enbridge  off  to  one  side  during  the  evening. 

" What's  on  yore  mind?"  he  asked. 

The  deputy  told  him. 

4 'The  superintendent  owns  that  horse,"  he  explained, 
"and  he  's  a  good  friend  of  mine.  Not  only  that,  but 
if  I  get  it  back  it  means  a  whole  lot  to  the  office;  it  '11 
put  Behan  solid  with  those  people  over  at  Contention, 
and  that  helps  me." 

The  outlaw  nodded  but  made  no  remark  by  way  of 
comment.  Some  time  later  he  sat  up  at  the  oilcloth-cov 
ered  table  talking  quietly  with  Frank  McLowery.  And 
Brenckenbridge  saw  McLowery  scowling.  Then  he  felt 
reasonably  sure  who  had  stolen  that  blooded  animal 
and  who  was  going  to  bring  it  back  to  Tombstone  in  the 
morning. 

Bedding-rolls  were  being  unlashed  within  the  half- 
hour.  McLowery  brought  Breckenbridge  a  pair  of 
blankets. 

"Reckon  you  '11  have  to  make  down  on  the  floor  same 
as  the  rest  of  the  boys, ' '  the  outlaw  growled  and  then,  as 
if  it  were  an  afterthought,  "That  there  hoss  yo'  're 
looking  fer  is  near  the  ranch." 

And  that  was  all  the  talk  there  was  on  the  subject 
during  the  evening.  But  Breckenbridge  spread  his 
blankets  and  lay  down  among  the  rustlers  serene  in 


THE  SHOW-DOWN  125 

mind.  Evidently  the  horse  was  going  to  be  in  his  pos 
session  the  next  morning. 

McLowery's  sullenness  seemed  to  have  been  contagious 
and  there  were  no  good-nights  said  to  the  guest.  He 
knew  every  man  in  the  room;  some  of  them  he  had 
known  ever  since  that  evening  when  Curly  Bill  had 
taken  him  to  the  rustler's  camp  is  the  San  Simon.  But 
the  best  he  got  from  any  of  them  was  an  averted  look; 
several  were  scowling  openly.  Even  Curly  Bill  had  put 
aside  his  usual  heavy  joviality.  It  was  clear  that  the 
burly  leader  had  strained  a  point  in  going  as  far  as  he 
had.  Some  men  might  have  felt  uneasy  in  dropping  off 
to  sleep  under  the  circumstances,  but  Breckenbridge 
understood  his  hosts  well  enough  to  be  certain  that,  so 
long  as  he  was  on  the  ranch,  the  sacred  rites  of  hos 
pitality  were  going  to  be  observed.  So  he  closed  his 
eyes  and  the  last  thing  he  heard  was  the  snoring  of  out 
laws  and  murderers. 

The  next  morning  he  awakened  to  find  that  several  of 
the  company  had  departed.  No  one  made  any  comment 
on  that  fact  and  there  was  no  mention  of  the  stolen  horse. 
But  when  the  deputy  had  downed  his  last  cup  of  coffee 
Frank  McLowery  took  him  outside  and  showed  him  the 
animal  tethered  to  a  hitching-rack. 

"Much  obliged,  Frank,"  said  Breckenbridge. 

The  stage-robber  gave  him  a  sour  grin. 

"Bet  yo'  never  fetch  him  back  to  Tombstone,"  he 
answered  quietly. 

The  two  looked  into  each  other's  eyes  and  smiled. 
You  may  have  seen  a  pair  of  fighters  smiling  in  that  same 
way  when  the  gong  has  sounded  and  they  have  put  up 
their  hands  at  the  beginning  of  a  finish  contest. 


126          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

Now  under  these  circumstances  and  remembering  the 
absence  of  several  of  the  best  horsemen  in  the  bunch 
from  the  ranch-house,  many  a  man  would  have  put  his 
saddle  on  the  thoroughbred  that  morning.  But  Brecken- 
bridge  had  managed  to  assimilate  some  of  the  wiles  of 
diplomacy  during  these  last  few  months  and  he  reasoned 
that  if  there  were  a  pursuing-party  waiting  for  him  to 
leave  the  ranch  they  would  be  prepared  for  that  same 
contingency.  Better  let  them  think  him  unready;  then 
perhaps  they  would  let  him  get  the  lead.  And  once  he 
got  it,  luck  would  have  to  help  him  carry  out  his  plan. 
He  saddled  the  hired  pony  and  rode  away,  leading  the 
recovered  animal. 

Before  he  had  gone  a  half-mile  beyond  the  ranch 
buildings  he  saw  that  he  had  figured  rightly.  The  floor 
of  the  Sulphur  Springs  valley  did  not  hold  so  much  as  a 
bush  by  way  of  cover ;  and  here,  off  to  the  left,  his  eyes 
fell  on  a  group  of  horsemen.  Evidently  they  had  been 
watching  him  ever  since  he  left  the  corrals  and  knew  the 
poorness  of  his  mount,  for  they  were  making  no  effort 
to  overhaul  him  as  yet. 

But  he  realized  that  the  gang  must  have  graver  busi 
ness  on  hand  than  the  recovery  of  the  thoroughbred; 
they  were  not  going  to  waste  any  too  much  time  over 
this  affair  and  he  would  not  be  allowed  to  travel  far  if 
they  could  help  it.  Just  then  a  wagon  outfit  climbed 
out  of  a  dry  wash  directly  ahead  of  him  and  he  saw  how 
luck  had  given  him  his  chance. 

He  rode  on,  leisurely  closing  in  upon  the  train.  Off 
there  to  the  left  the  outlaws  were  keeping  pace  with  him, 
but  as  yet  they  were  making  no  attempt  to  lessen  the 
distance  between  them.  He  came  up  with  the  last 


THE  SHOW-DOWN  127 

wagon,  turned  off  the  road  beside  it,  and  had  the  clumsy 
covered  vehicle  between  him  and  the  rustlers.  Then 
he  dismounted. 

The  wagons  kept  on  moving ;  now  and  again  the  team 
sters  glanced  toward  him  curiously.  He  barely  heeded 
them  save  to  see  that  they  made  no  sign  to  the  now  in 
visible  outlaws.  It  took  all  the  skill  that  he  owned  to 
keep  both  his  horses  walking  while  he  unsaddled  the 
one  and  threw  the  saddle  upon  the  other.  But  at  last 
the  change  was  made  and  he  flung  himself  upon  the 
thoroughbred's  back.  Shouting  to  the  nearest  teamster 
to  lead  the  abandoned  pony  back  to  Tombstone,  he  put 
spurs  to  his  fresh  mount  and  came  out  in  the  road  ahead 
of  the  foremost  span  of  leaders  on  a  dead  run. 

There  were  six  of  the  outlaws  and  they  were  less  than 
half  a  mile  away.  Breckenbridge  had  been  out  of 
sight  behind  the  wagons  just  a  little  too  long  to  suit 
them  and  they  were  cutting  in  toward  the  road  now  at 
top  speed. 

From  the  beginning  it  was  a  stern  chase  and  they  had 
only  one  hope  of  winning.  Nothing  less  swift  than  a 
bullet  could  ever  catch  that  thoroughbred.  They  pulled 
up  at  once  and  began  shooting.  But  although  some  of 
the  slugs  from  their  rifles  came  uncomfortably  close 
none  found  its  mark  and  Breckenbridge  was  fast  draw 
ing  away  from  them.  However,  they  were  not  the  men 
to  give  up  so  long  as  there  was  any  chance  remaining, 
and  they  swung  back  into  their  saddles  to  *  *  burn  up  the 
road"  in  his  wake. 

Now  all  hands  settled  down  to  make  a  long  race  of  it, 
and  it  was  not  until  he  was  climbing  the  first  slopes  to 
ward  South  Pass  in  the  Dragoon  Mountains  that 


128          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

Breckenbridge  looked  back  for  the  last  time  and  saw  the 
shapes  of  those  six  horsemen  diminishing  in  the  distance 
as  they  jogged  back  toward  the  McLowery  ranch. 

So  through  the  good-will  of  Curly  Bill  young  Brecken- 
bridge  recovered  the  thoroughbred  from  the  man  who 
had  stolen  it  and  brought  it  to  Tombstone  without  being 
obliged  to  reach  for  his  own  gun.  And  morever  there 
were  no  hard  feelings  about  it  when  he  rode  back  into  no- 
man  Viand  the  next  time.  So  far  as  Frank  McLowery 
and  the  Clanton  boys  were  concerned  the  incident  was 
closed.  The  deputy  had  won  out  and  that  was  all  there 
was  to  it. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  only  a  month  or  so  later  a  horse- 
thief  from  Lincoln  County,  New  Mexico,  came  to  grief 
at  Galeyville  because  he  did  not  understand  Brecken- 
bridge's  status  in  the  rustlers'  metropolis.  This  bad 
man  from  the  Pecos  had  a  pretty  sorrel  pony  and  the 
deputy,  who  was  in  the  place  on  civil  business,  happened 
to  notice  the  animal  at  the  hitching-rack  in  front  of  the 
hotel. 

"Say,"  he  said  to  its  possessor,  who  was  standing 
near  by,  "that  's  a  nice  horse;  where  'd  you  get  him?" 

The  remark  was  a  careless  one  in  a  country  where 
ponies  often  changed  owners  overnight,  and  the  man 
from  the  Pecos  was  sensitive  enough  on  the  subject  to 
resent  the  question  from  one  who  wore  a  star.  He 
answered  it  by  drawing  his  gun. 

Breckenbridge,  who  was  as  dexterous  with  his  left 
hand  as  with  his  right,  reached  down  as  the  weapon 
came  forth  from  its  holster  and  gripped  the  stranger's 
wrist.  He  gave  a  sharp  wrench  and  the  revolver 
clattered  down  on  the  sidewalk.  And  then  Curly  Bill, 


THE  SHOW-DOWN  129 

who  had  witnessed  the  incident,  stepped  forward  and 
ordered  the  visitor  out  of  Galeyville. 

"Yo'-all  don't  need  to  think,"  the  desperado  added, 
''that  you  can  come  here  and  make  a  gun-play  on  our 
deputy.  We  get  along  all  right  with  him  and  I  reckon 
we  ain  't  going  to  stand  for  any  cow-thieves  from  Lincoln 
County  gettin'  brash  with  him." 

Something  like  two  years  had  passed  now  since  young 
Billy  Breckenbridge  first  rode  across  the  Dragoon 
Mountains  into  no-man's-land  and,  as  the  old-timers  who 
had  been  watching  him  all  this  time  well  knew,  things 
could  not  go  on  in  this  way  forever.  The  show-down 
was  bound  to  come.  It  came  one  day  at  the  Chandler 
ranch  and  the  old-timers  got  the  answer  to  their  question. 

There  were  two  young  fellows  by  the  name  of  Zwing 
Hunt  and  Billy  Grounds  who  had  been  working  at  Philip 
Morse's  sawmill  over  in  the  Chiracahua  Mountains. 

Somehow  or  other  they  had  got  mixed  up  with  the 
stock-rustlers  and  the  temptation  to  make  easy  money 
proved  too  strong  for  them.  One  evening  they  went 
over  to  the  Contention  mill  and  held  up  the  place,  kill 
ing  the  man  in  charge. 

Johnny  Behan  was  out  of  town  at  the  time  with 
several  deputies  after  the  Earps  who  had  departed  from 
Tombstone.  The  under-sheriff  detailed  Breckenbridge 
on  the  case  and  drafted  a  posse  of  three  men  to  help 
him. 

"No,  sir,"  the  former  said  when  the  young  deputy 
remonstrated  against  the  presence  of  these  aides. 
"This  ain't  a  case  of  talking  John  Ringo  into  coming 
over  and  putting  up  a  bond.  This  here  's  murder  and 
those  lads  are  going  to  show  fight. ' ' 


130          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

Orders  were  orders ;  there  was  no  use  arguing  further. 
The  erstwhile  diplomat  made  the  best  of  a  bad  matter 
and  rode  away  with  his  three  companions.  It  was  even 
ing  when  they  left  Tombstone  and  the  Chandler  ranch 
lay  several  hours  distant.  Those  who  saw  them  leave 
the  camp  spread  the  news.  And  now  the  old-timers 
settled  down,  certain  that  when  Billy  Breckenbridge 
returned  they  were  going  to  know  just  what  he  was 
made  of. 

He  came  back  the  next  evening,  riding  alongside  a 
lumber-wagon.  In  those  days  the  mining  companies 
maintained  a  hospital  at  the  edge  of  the  town.  The 
vehicle  made  one  stop  at  this  institution  and  unloaded 
three  of  its  occupants.  It  made  a  second  stop  before  the 
establishment  of  a  local  undertaker,  where  two  bodies 
were  removed.  And  then  young  Breckenbridge  rode  on 
alone  to  the  court-house.  Two  outlaws  and  four  men  in 
the  deputy  sheriff's  party  makes  six  altogether.  Out 
of  the  six  he  was  the  only  one  left  on  his  feet. 

"And  the  hull  thing  didn't  last  five  minutes,"  said 
"Bull"  Lewis,  the  driver  of  the  wagon.  "I  was  asleep 
in  the  ranch-house  along  with  these  two  outlaws  when 
some  one  knocked  on  the  door.  Bight  away  I  heard  a 
shot  in  the  next  room  and  I  busted  out  with  my  hands 
up  and  yelling  that  I  was  a  nootral.  Before  I  'd  gone 
twenty  yards  Hunt  and  Grounds  had  killed  two  of  the 
posse  and  by  the  time  I  was  over  that  rise  behind 
the  house  they  'd  laid  out  the  other.  And  then  I 
watched  this  little  deputy  get  the  two  of  them. 

"He  was  out  in  the  open  and  they  were  inside,  and 
both  of  'em  were  sure  burnin'  powder  mighty  fast. 
But  he  waited  his  chance  and  tore  the  top  of  Grounds 's 


THE  SHOW-DOWN  131 

head  off  with  a  charge  of  buckshot  when  he  stepped  to 
the  door  to  get  a  better  shot.  And  a  second-  or  two  later 
Zwing  Hunt  came  out  of  the  cabin,  firing  as  he  ran. 
The  little  fellow  dropped  him  with  a  bullet  from  his 
forty-five  before  he  'd  come  more  'n  a  half  a  dozen 
jumps." 

But  Breckenbridge  was  a  long  way  from  being  jubi 
lant  when  Johnny  Behan  and  the  under-sheriff  con 
gratulated  him  on  his  behavior. 

1 1  If  you  had  n  Tt  wished  those  three  fellows  on  me  I  'd 
have  brought  both  these  boys  back  without  firing  a 
shot,"  he  told  the  under-sheriff.  "The  blamed  posse 
made  such  a  noise  coming  up  to  the  cabin  that  the  two 
of  'em  thought  't  was  a  lynching-party  and  opened  fire 
on  us.  Yes,  sir.  I  could  have  talked  them  into  coming 
— if  I  'd  only  been  alone." 

And  so  when  it  did  finally  come  to  the  show-down  all 
hands  learned  of  just  what  material  young  Brecken 
bridge  was  made. 


THE  PASSING  OF  JOHN  RINGO 

THERE  were  all  kinds  of  bad  men  in  the  days  of  the 
old  West.  John  Ringo  was  one  sort  and  Buckskin 
Frank  was  another.  While  this  tale  deals  most  with 
the  former,  still  it  concerns  the  two  of  them. 

In  its  wild  youth  the  town  of  Tombstone  knew  both 
men.  To  this  day  the  old-timers  who  witnessed  the 
swift  march  of  events  during  the  years  1879,  1880,  and 
1881  will  tell  you  of  their  deeds.  But  things  were  hap 
pening  fast  when  those  deeds  took  place.  There  was, 
if  one  may  be  allowed  to  use  a  poetic  figure,  a  good  deal 
of  powder-smoke  floating  in  the  air  to  obscure  the  vision. 
And  so  although  no  men  were  ever  more  just  in  passing 
judgment  than  these  same  old-timers,  the  story  has  its 
sardonic  ending. 

John  Ringo  was  the  big  "He  Wolf"  among  the  out 
laws,  a  man  of  quick  intelligence  who  did  not  seem  to 
care  much  whether  he  or  the  other  fellow  died.  To 
him  who  wants  the  ornate  trappings  of  the  motion- 
picture  bad  man  or  the  dialect  which  makes  some  des 
peradoes  popular  in  fiction,  Ringo  would  prove  a  dis 
appointing  figure  as  he  showed  up  in  southeastern 
Arizona. 

For  he  wore  no  hair  chaps,  nor  do  those  who  saw  him 
tell  of  a  knotted  colored  handkerchief  about  his  throat. 
Like  most  of  those  riders  who  drifted  into  the  terri 
tory  when  other  portions  of  the  West  had  grown  too 

132 


THE  PASSING  OF  JOHN  RINGO          133 

hot  for  them,  his  costume  was  unobtrusive :  light-colored 
jean  breeches  tucked  into  his  boot-tops,  a  flannel  shirt 
and  the  gray  Stetson  peculiar  to  the  country  west  of  the 
Pecos,  a  limp-brimmed  hat  with  a  high  crown,  which 
may  be  creased  after  the  old  "Southern  Gentleman" 
fashion  but  was  most  often  left  with  such  dents  as  come 
by  accident.  Of  hardware  he  carried  his  full  share; 
sometimes  two  forty -five  revolvers  and  a  Winchester; 
but  if  he  were  in  town  the  arms  were  as  likely  as  not 
concealed. 

It  would  take  a  second  look  to  separate  him  from  the 
herd.  That  second  look  would  show  you  a  fine,  lean 
form  whose  every  movement  was  catlike  in  its  grace, 
a  dark  face  whose  expression  was  usually  sullen,  whose 
eyes  were  nearly  always  somber;  slender  hands  and 
small  feet.  And  his  speech,  whenever  you  heard  it, 
was  sure  to  be  comparatively  free  from  the  idioms 
of  the  region;  the  English  was  often  more  correct 
than  otherwise.  A  man  o.f  parts,  and  he  looked  it; 
they  all  say  that. 

This  was  John  Bingo.  He  had  fought  in  one  of 
those  numerous  cattle  wars  which  raged  throughout 
western  Texas  during  the  seventies.  Before  that  pe 
riod  a  certain  California  city  had  known  him  as  the 
reckless  son  of  a  decent  family. 

And  in  passing  note  the  fact  that  he  still  got  letters 
from  his  people  after  he  came  to  Tombstone  with  a 
price  on  his  head.  Which  helps  to  explain  that  somber 
demeanor,  the  whisky  which  he  drank — and  the  ending 
of  his  life's  story. 

Buckskin  Frank  fulfils  the  requirements  of  some  tra 
ditions  much  better  when  it  comes  to  externals.  He 


134          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

wore  leathern  fringes  on  his  shirt  and  breeches,  and 
his  sombrero  was  bedecked  with  much  silver.  His  wea 
pons  were  always  in  evidence ;  a  pair  of  silver-mounted 
revolvers  were  the  most  noticeable  among  them. 

Because  he  called  himself  a  scout  some  men  used 
the  term  in  speaking  of  him.  He  did  not  ride  with 
the  outlaws,  although  he  often  vanished  from  Tomb 
stone  for  considerable  periods;  in  town  he  was  always 
to  be  found  in  some  gambling-house  or  dance-hall. 

Of  women  there  were  many  who  fancied  him.  And 
he  could  shoot  to  kill — from  in  front  if  the  occasion  de 
manded  it;  from  behind  if  the  opportunity  was  given 
him.  A  handsome  fellow,  and  he  had  a  persuasive  way 
with  him. 

Whisky  got  the  best  of  him  in  his  later  years,  but 
that  was  after  the  period  with  which  this  narrative  has 
to  deal;  and  when  he  drank,  it  was  not  because  of  any 
brooding.  The  past  held  no  regrets  for  him ;  thus  far  he 
had  managed  to  handle  every  situation  to  his  own  satis 
faction. 

These  are  the  two  men ;  and  as  for  Tombstone,  it  was 
booming.  The  mines  were  paying  tremendously;  busi 
ness  was  brisk  twenty-four  hours  a  day.  An  era  of 
claim- jumping,  faro-playing,  dance-halls,  the  Bird-Cage, 
Opera  House,  Apache  scares,  stage  hold-ups;  and,  of 
course,  gun-fighting. 

The  Earps  virtually  ran  the  town  government;  they 
enforced  the  local  laws  against  shooting  up  the  place 
and  so  forth  very  much  after  the  manner  of  Dodge 
City;  and  they  were  strong,  resolute  men.  Buckskin 
Frank  was  on  good  terms  with  their  henchmen ;  he  was, 


THE  PASSING  OF  JOHN  RINGO  135 

if  the  statements  of  the  old-timers  are  to  be  believed, 
anxious  to  remain  in  the  good  graces  of  these  stern 
rulers. 

John  Ringo,  on  the  other  hand,  was  at  outs  with 
them;  and  soon  after  their  advent  into  power  he 
drifted  away  from  Tombstone  along  with  the  other  out 
laws.  To  use  the  expression  of  the  times,  he  was  ' '  short ' ' 
iu  the  mining  town,  which  means  that  when  he  came 
there  he  had  to  be  ready  at  all  times  to  defend  his  life 
and  liberty. 

And  now  that  you  have  seen  the  men  and  the  town, 
the  tale  can  go  on;  it  is  a  mere  recital  of  certain  inci 
dents  which  took  place  during  the  last  year  or  two  of 
John  Ringo 's  life;  incidents  which  show  the  difference 
between  his  breed  of  bad  man  and  the  breed  to  which 
Buckskin  Frank  belonged.  To  the  chronicler  these  in 
cidents  appeal  for  that  very  reason.  The  days  of  the 
old  West  strike  one  as  being  very  much  like  the  days 
of  old  knighthood ;  they  were  rude  days  when  some  men 
tried  hard  to  live  up  to  a  code  of  chivalry  and  some 
men  made  themselves  mighty  by  very  foul  means  in 
deed.  And  while  we  may  not  always  be  sure  that  the 
names  which  have  come  down  to  us — from  either  of 
these  wild  eras — are  those  that  should  have  been  cou 
pled  with  fame,  still  we  can  be  certain  of  one  thing :  the 
chivalry  existed  in  both  periods. 

According  to  the  code  in  the  Middle  Ages  the  chal 
lenge  and  the  single  combat  were  recognized  institu 
tions  ;  and  they  say  that  knights-errant  used  to  go  riding 
through  the  country  seeking  worthy  opponents.  And 
according  to  the  cow-boy  code  in  southeastern  Arizona 


136          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

during  the  early  eighties  among  the  outlaws,  a  cham 
pion  must  be  ready  to  try  conclusions  in  very  much 
that  same  way  on  occasion. 

It  was  one  of  those  traditions  which  some  men  ob 
served  and  some — wisely — ignored.  This  desperado 
John  Ringo  was  among  those  who  observed  it;  and  one 
day,  like  poor  old  Don  Quixote,  he  found  himself  trying 
to  force  conclusions  with  men  whose  ideas  were  more 
modern  than  his  own,  which  led  him — like  Cervante's 
lean  hero — into  a  bad  predicament  and  also  brought 
him  to  a  strange  friendship. 

The  Earp  brothers  and  their  followers,  as  has  been 
said,  were  ruling  Tombstone,  and  the  outlaws  had  fled 
into  the  country  east  of  the  Dragoon  Mountains.  But 
the  outlaws  did  not  fancy  remaining  out  in  the  open 
country ;  sometimes  they  came  back  to  town  in  force  and 
hung  about  the  place  for  days;  always  they  were  hop 
ing  to  return  permanently.  And  always  the  Earps 
were  looking  to  drive  them  out  of  the  country  for  good 
and  all. 

Eventually  the  situation  came  to  a  climax  in  the  great 
Earp-Clanton  gun-fight,  and  there  was  a  long  p'eriod 
when  this  battle  was  brewing.  During  this  period 
whenever  they  came  to  town  the  desperadoes  used  to 
stay  at  the  Grand  Central  Hotel;  and  Bob  Hatch's 
saloon,  where  the  Earp  boys  and  their  friends  were 
accustomed  to  take  their  "morning's  morning,"  was 
directly  across  the  street.  Things  came  to  a  pass  where 
the  noon  hour  would  often  find  a  group  of  outlaws  on 
the  sidewalk  before  the  hotel  and  a  number  of  the  Earp 
faction  in  front  of  the  saloon,  both  outfits  heavily  armed, 


THE  PASSING  OF  JOHN  RINGO          137 

the  members  of  each  glowering  across  the  street  at  those 
of  the  other. 

Now  Wyatt  Earp,  Doc  Holliday,  and  others  of  the 
law-and-order  party  had  come  here  with  big  reputations 
from  Dodge  City,  where  they  had  taken  part  in  more 
than  one  affair  when  the  lead  was  flying.  They  had 
sustained  those  reputations  by  their  deeds  in  Tomb 
stone;  they  were  champions — "He  Wolves."  And  so 
one  noontime  when  he  was  standing  on  the  sidewalk 
among  his  fellow  outlaws,  John  Ringo  was  seized  with 
an  idea. 

He  looked  across  the  street  at  the  members  of  the 
Earp  party,  who  were  regarding  the  desperadoes  in 
ominous  silence.  The  idea  grew  more  powerful,  until 
it  owned  him.  He  stepped  down  from  the  sidewalk's 
edge  into  the  roadway,  crossed  it,  and  came  to  a  halt 
within  a  few  feet  of  his  enemies.  Addressing  Wyatt 
Earp  by  name — so  goes  the  story — 

"This  sort  of  thing,"  John  Ringo  said,  "has  been 
going  on  for  a  long  time  now.  Pretty  soon  there  's 
bound  to  be  a  big  killing  if  it  keeps  up.  Now  I  Ve  got 
a  proposition.  You,  or  Doc  Holliday  if  you  'd  rather 
have  him,  step  into  the  street  here  with  me,  and  the  two 
of  us  will  shoot  it  out,  and,  if  you  Tre  game,  why  we  '11 
do  it  holding  the  opposite  corner  of  a  handkerchief 
in  our  teeth.  I  give  my  word,  my  gang  will  stand  by 
the  result." 

Wyatt  Earp  made  no  answer.  What  temptation  that 
offer  held  to  him  one  can  judge  only  by  the  fact  that  he 
was  a  bold  man  who  had  a  long  record  of  large  deeds 
to  his  credit.  But  also  he  was  the  recognized  head  of  a 


138          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

movement  for  law  and  order,  a  movement  which  had 
already  stopped  indiscriminate  street-shooting  in 
Tombstone;  just  at  this  time  he  was  being  groomed  in 
certain  quarters  as  a  candidate  for  sheriff,  and  the 
banner  of  his  party  was  emblazoned  with  the  word  Re 
form. 

It  is  easy  enough  to  see  how  John  Ringo  was  behind 
the  times  when  he  made  that  proposition  on  Tombstone's 
main  street.  It  is  easy  also  to  imagine  his  feelings 
when  without  a  word  by  way  of  answer  or  acknowl 
edgment  the  members  of  the  Earp  faction  stood  re 
garding  him.  He  turned  his  back  upon  them  and  he 
recrossed  the  street,  and  when  he  had  gained  the  op 
posite  sidewalk  they  were  gone  within  Bob  Hatch's 
saloon. 

Johnny  Behan  was  sheriff  then,  politically  an  enemy 
of  the  Earps  and  politically  friendly  to  the  outlaws. 
He  was  sitting  in  his  office  with  young  William  Breck- 
enbridge,  his  diplomatic  deputy,  when  some  one  brought 
word  that  John  Ringo  had  made  a  gun-play  and  was 
holding  down  the  main  street  with  drawn  revolvers. 

''Go  and  fetch  him  in,"  the  sheriff  bade  Brecken- 
bridge. 

The  latter  found  the  outlaw  pacing  up  and  down  be 
fore  the  Grand  Central  Hotel  after  the  fashion  of  the 
cow-boy  who  has  shot  up  a  saloon  and  driven  all  hands 
out  of  the  place.  The  two  had  met  months  before  when 
the  deputy  was  out  in  the  eastern  part  of  the  county 
collecting  taxes  with  Curly  Bill  as  his  guide  and  pro 
tector. 

"What's  up?"  the  youthful  officer  demanded,  and 
John  Ringo  recited  his  version  of  the  affair. 


THE  PASSING  OF  JOHN  RINGO  139 

"Well,"  the  other  told  him  when  he  had  finished, 
"the  sheriff  wants  to  see  you." 

The  desperado  shrugged  his  shoulders,  but  went  along 
quietly  enough;  bail  was  easy  to  arrange  in  those  days, 
and  this  was  not  a  serious  matter. 

In  his  office  Johnny  Behan  heard  the  tale  and  frowned. 
There  were  times  when  his-  cow-boy  contituents  be 
came  a  source  of  embarrassment  to  him;  this  was  one 
of  them. 

"Guess  you  11  have  to  turn  over  those  guns  of  yours," 
he  bade  the  prisoner. 

Ringo  handed  the  revolvers  to  him,  and  he  put  them 
into  a  desk  drawer.  There  followed  several  moments  of 
awkward  silence.  At  length  Johnny  Behan  arose  and 
started  to  leave  the  room. 

"Going  to  lock  me  up?"  Ringo  asked.  "I'd  like 
to  fix  it  to  get  bail,  you  know." 

"No  charge  against  you,"  the  sheriff  said  in  the 
doorway.  "You  can  go  back  downtown  whenever 
you  want  to. ' ' 

With  which  he  passed  out  into  the  corridor  and  forgot 
all  about  the  matter.  In  the  office  Ringo  stood  scowl 
ing  at  the  deputy. 

"That  's  plain  murder,"  he  said  at  length.  "Before 
I  get  a  block  away  from  here  without  my  guns  those 
coyotes  will  kill  me." 

Breckenbridge  had  been  doing  some  thinking  on  his 
own  account  during  the  last  few  moments,  and  he  real 
ized  the  justice  of  this  argument.  But  the  law  was 
the  law,  and  the  sheriff  was  boss.  It  was  not  his  busi 
ness  to  interfere.  He  looked  Ringo  in  the  eyes,  got  up 
from  his  chair,  opened  the  desk  drawer — and  left  the 


140          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

room.  And  when  he  came  back  the  guns  and  their 
owner  had  departed. 

In  itself  the  incident  was  n  't  much  to  talk  about.  In 
those  times  all  sorts  of  things  were  being  done  accord 
ing  to  different  standards  from  those  which  rule  now. 
But  it  brought  its  consequences. 

The  days  went  by.  In  Tombstone  politics  seethed; 
the  law-and-order  party  was  making  things  hot  for 
Johnny  Behan,  whose  sympathies  with  the  cow 
boys  gave  him  the  support  of  the  desperadoes,  a  sup 
port  which  in  its  turn  brought  the  accusation  that  he 
was  extending  leniency  to  wanted  men. 

Over  in  the  Sulphur  Springs  valley  and  the  San 
Simon  John  Bingo  nursed  his  grudge  against  the  sheriff 
for  having  disarmed  him  when  his  guns  were  so  sorely 
needed;  he  cherished  that  unpleasant  memory  while  he 
directed  the  movements  of  Curly  Bill  and  their  fol 
lowers,  while  he  rode  forth  from  Galeyville  with  them 
to  raid  the  herds  of  border  cow-men,  or  to  ambush 
bands  of  Mexican  smugglers,  or  to  rob  the  stages. 

And  so  gradually  it  became  known  among  his  fellows 
that  their  leader  held  a  grievance  against  the  sheriff, 
that  he  was  biding  his  opportunity  to  play  even  with 
Johnny  Behan  for  that  blundering  piece  of  thought 
lessness.  John  Eingo  was  the  biggest  man  among  them 
all,  the  brains  of  the  whole  crowd;  they  wanted  to  see 
in  what  manner  he  would  settle  the  score.  And  finally 
the  time  came  when  he  got  his  chance. 

A  man  who  rejoiced  in  the  name  of  Kettle-Belly  John 
son  was  the  indirect  means  of  bringing  about  this  op 
portunity.  He  enters  the  story  on  a  blistering  after 
noon  in  the  little  town  of  Galeyville. 


THE  PASSING  OF  JOHN  RINGO          141 

It  has  been  told  in  another  of  these  tales  how  Galey- 
ville  was  the  bad  men's  metropolis,  headquarters  for  all 
the  rustlers  and  stage-robbers  of  Cochise  County;  how 
the  place  enjoyed  a  brisk  prosperity  through  the  enter 
prise  of  a  wide-awake  citizen  who  had  established  a  cat 
tle-buying  business — and  no  questions  asked.  On  the 
afternoon  in  question  John  Ringo  was  the  only  out 
law  in  the  place;  his  followers  were  absent  on  some 
wild  errand  or  other  and  he  was  putting  in  the  time 
at  a  poker-game. 

There  were  four  men  seated  around  the  table  in  the 
dingy  bar-room,  silent  as  four  owls,  mirthless  as  high 
priests  at  a  sacred  rite.  Observing  the  full  ceremoni 
als  which  dignify  draw-poker,  they  let  the  chips  and 
cards  do  all  the  talking — and  made  signs  when  they 
chose  to  pass. 

It  has  been  said  that  John  Ringo 's  face  was  sullen 
and  his  eyes  were  somber;  the  depth  of  his  unpleasant 
expression  had  grown  this  afternoon  as  the  shabbiness 
of  his  luck  increased.  Or  was  it  luck  ? 

He  sat,  of  course,  facing  the  door,  and  Kettle-Belly 
Johnson  occupied  the  opposite  chair.  On  the  two  other 
players,  one  of  whom  was  flanking  John  Ringo  on  each 
side,  there  is  no  need  to  waste  words ;  they  belonged  to 
the  same  breed  as  the  poetically  rechristened  Johnson, 
the  breed  that  got  its  name  from  shaking  dice  against 
Mexicans  out  of  tin  horns. 

It  was  no  more  than  natural  that  the  desperado 
should  ask  himself  whether  he  was  right  in  blaming 
fortune  for  the  cards  which  he  drew.  There  came  a 
new  deal  and  time  to  draw  again. 

"Two,"  John  Ringo  muttered. 


142          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

Kettle-Belly  Johnson  held  up  a  single  finger;  and 
when  he  had  got  his  card,  performed  one  of  those  pres- 
tidigital  feats  by  which  he  made  his  living.  And  when 
this  was  accomplished — with  the  aid  of  a  device  known 
as  a  "hold-out" — his  moist,  plump  fingers  clutched  a 
full  house — jacks  on  kings.  The  betting  went  briskly 
to  the  bitter  end. 

John  Ringo  scowled  down  on  the  hand  which  beat 
his;  pushed  back  his  chair,  fumbled  briefly  at  his  vest, 
and  laid  his  gold  watch  on  the  table. 

"Lend  me  a  hundred,"  he  growled.  "She  's  worth 
a  hundred  and  fifty."  But  Kettle-Belly  Johnson  shook 
his  head. 

"Easy  come,"  said  he,  "easy  go.  Get  out  and 
rustle  some  more  cows  or  hold  up  the  stage  again.  We 
ain't  a-runnin'  no  pawn-shop." 

John  Ringo  left  the  room  without  more  words,  and 
the  three  tin  horns  fell  to  cutting  for  low  spade  to  while 
away  the  time.  They  had  been  at  it  just  as  long  as  it 
would  take  a  man  to  go  down  to  the  corral,  saddle  his 
pony,  and  bring  the  animal  up  in  front  of  the  building, 
when  the  outlaw  reentered.  His  single-action  Colt's 
forty-five  revolver  was  in  his  right  hand;  its  muzzle 
regarded  the  trio  at  the  table  like  a  dark,  baleful  eye. 

The  bearer  of  the  weapon  uttered  a  single  word,  a 
word  which  is  not  found  in  any  dictionary  although  it 
has  come  down  from  the  time  when  the  first  English 
man  took  to  the  highway  to  seek  his  daily  meat. 

"Hanzup!" 

They  obeyed  and  the  ensuing  silence  was  broken  by 
the  pleasant  chink  of  money  as  John  Ringo 's  left  hand 
raked  the  winnings  into  his  pocket.  There  was  no  pur- 


THE  PASSING  OF  JOHN  EINGO          143 

suit  as  he  rode  away  down  Galeyville's  main  street; 
but  he  spurred  his  pony  hard,  for  self -righteousness 
was  boiling  within  him  and  he  had  to  find  relief  some 
way. 

' '  Damn  bunch  of  robbers ! "  he  told  the  horse. 

Ordinarily  the  incident  would  have  closed  then  and 
there;  but  fate  so  willed  it  that  Kettle-Belly  Johnson 
came  to  Tombstone  a  few  days  later  and  voiced  his 
plaint  in  Bob  Hatch's  saloon,  where  he  found  himself 
suddenly  surrounded  by  sympathizers.  He  did  not 
know — and  if  he  had  he  would  not  have  cared  one  way 
or  the  other — that  the  new  law-and-order  party  had 
grown  to  a  point  where  it  wanted  to  get  action  in  the 
courts;  that  its  members  were  looking  for  an  oppor- 
unity  to  swear  out  a  warrant  against  some  of  the  bigger 
outlaws  in  order  to  "show  up"  Johnny  Behan,  who — 
so  men  said — was  unwilling  to  arrest  any  of  the  cow-boy 
faction.  The  grand  jury  was  in  session;  they  got 
Kettle-Belly  Johnson  sober  enough  to  face  star-chamber 
inquisition  and  led  him  to  the  court-house  in  the  morning. 

So  it  came  that  young  Billy  Breckenbridge,  whose 
business  was  serving  warrants  and  not  bothering  over 
the  whys  and  wherefores  of  their  issuance,  knocked  at 
the  door  of  John  Ringo  's  cabin  in  Galey  ville  a  few  days 
later;  and  then,  being  a  prudent  man,  stepped  to  one 
side  where  he  would  be  beyond  the  zone  of  fire. 

"Got  a  warrant  for  you,"  he  announced  when  the 
desperado  had  demanded  to  know  who  was  there. 
"Highway  robbery." 

There  was  a  bit  of  parleying  through  the  closed  door 
and  finally — 

"Man  by  the  name  of  Johnson  is  the  complaining 


144          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

witness, ' '  young-  Breckenbridge  elucidated.  '  *  According 
to  what  I  hear,  the  play  came  up  along  of  a  poker  game. ' ' 

John  Ringo  swore  lightly. 

' ' Come  in, ' '  he  bade  the  deputy.  "I  '11  get  my  clothes 
on  in  a  minute." 

He  laughed  sourly  as  he  was  pulling  on  his  boots  some 
moments  later. 

"Looks  as  if  the  grand  jury  's  hard  up  for  something 
to  do,"  he  observed. 

He  rose  and  belted  on  his  gun,  a  proceeding  about 
which  his  custodian,  being  unburdened  with  any  desire 
to  burn  powder  over  such  hair-splitting  technicalities  as 
a  man's  right  to  wear  weapons  on  his  way  to  jail, 
made  no  comment. 

"We  '11  go  down  the  street,"  the  prisoner  suggested 
as  they  were  leaving  the  cabin,  "and  I  '11  fix  it  up  to 
get  bail." 

But  the  accommodating  cattle-buyer  who  arranged 
such  matters  for  the  bigger  outlaws  was  out  of  town 
and  would  not  be  back  until  evening.  Breckenbridge 's 
horse  was  jaded,  and  if  he  wanted  to  reach  Tombstone  in 
good  time  he  should  be  setting  forth  at  once. 

"You  go  ahead,"  John  Ringo  bade  him.  "I  '11  catch 
up  with  you  before  you  pass  Sulphur  Springs  ranch. ' ' 

Those  were  queer  days,  and  if  you  judge  things  from 
our  twentieth-century  point  of  view  you  will  probably 
find  yourself  bewildered. 

John  Ringo  was  known  to  be  a  cattle-rustler,  stage- 
robber,  and — according  to  the  law — a  murderer.  And 
Breckenbridge,  whose  duty  it  was  to  enforce  the  statutes, 
set  out  for  the  county  seat  alone  on  the  strength  of  that 
promise.  Nor  was  he  in  the  least  surprised  when  his 


THE  PASSING  OF  JOHN  RINGO          145 

prisoner,  who  had  ridden  all  night  to  make  good  his  word, 
overtook  him  in  the  middle  of  the  valley. 

Queer  days  indeed!  And  the  threads  of  some  men's 
lives  were  sadly  tangled.  Such  desperadoes  as  Curly 
Bill  were  easy  enough  to  read;  just  rough-and-tumble 
cow-boys  who  had  taken  to  whisky  and  bad  company. 
But  behind  the  somber  mask  of  John  Ringo's  face  there 
lurked  a  hidden  history;  something  was  there  which  he 
did  not  choose  to  reveal  to  the  rest  of  the  world. 

The  mail  had  come  to  Galeyville  after  young  Brecken- 
bridge  left.  There  is  nothing  more  conducive  to  con 
fidences  than  a  long  ride  through  a  lonely  country.  And 
when  these  two  were  jogging  across  the  wide,  arid  reaches 
of  the  Sulphur  Springs  Valley  the  outlaw  pulled  a  let 
ter  from  his  pocket;  the  envelope  was  already  broken. 
Evidently  he  had  read  its  contents  before;  now  he 
scanned  them  for  a  long  time  and  his  dark  face  was  set. 
He  thrust  the  paper  back  into  its  enclosure;  then  sud 
denly,  as  one  who  yields  to  impulse,  reined  his  pony 
closer  to  his  companion  and  held  forth  the  envelope  for 
him  to  read. 

* '  Look  at  that  writing, ' '  he  said  quietly. 

The  hand  was  unmistakably  that  of  a  woman  of  edu 
cation. 

"My  sister/'  he  added,  and  shoved  the  letter  into  his 
pocket. 

They  rode  some  distance  in  silence  and  then — 

* '  And  I  'm  here, ' '  John  Ringo  added  in  the  same  even 
voice.  "She  writes  me  regularly.  Thinks  I  'm  doing 
fine!" 

He  did  not  bring  up  the  subject  again ;  it  was  as  if  he 
had  opened  a  curtain  a  little  way  and  let  it  fall  at  once ; 


146          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

but  the  deputy,  who  came  from  good  people  himself,  had 
been  able  to  see  much  during  that  brief  glimpse  into  the 
outlaw's  hidden  life.  And  having  seen  those  tangled 
threads  he  was  able  to  understand  certain  matters  all  the 
better  when  the  end  came. 

Now  while  Deputy  Sheriff  Breckenbridge  and  'John 
Ringo  were  riding  toward  Tombstone  things  were  brew 
ing  in  that  wild  young  mining  camp.  The  law-and-order 
party  was  preparing  to  make  a  clean-up  of  the  despera 
does. 

And  when  the  pair  arrived  the  news  went  forth;  the 
hour  was  late,  but  late  hours  meant  little  in  those  days  of 
all-night  gambling ;  a  number  of  the  leaders  gathered  in 
Bob  Hatch's  saloon  and  discussed  the  situation.  It 
looked  promising,  for  Ringo  was  the  brains  of  the  bad 
men ;  with  him  in  custody  it  should  be  easy  to  lay  hands 
on  Curly  Bill,  who  was  at  the  time  over  in  the  lawless 
town  of  Charleston  on  the  San  Pedro.  They  made  their 
plans  toward  that  end;  and,  just  to  make  doubly  sure, 
they  arranged  with  the  district  attorney  to  see  that 
Ringo  should  be  kept  in  jail  for  at  least  twenty-four 
hours. 

That  was  the  situation  when  the  pair  arrived  from  no- 
man  's-land;  there  was  no  chance  of  getting  bail  at  this 
time  of  night.  The  outlaw  slept  behind  the  bars;  and 
when  the  morning  came  he  sent  for  the  lawyer  who  was 
always  retained  by  the  stock-rustlers,  a  criminal  attorney 
by  the  name  of  Goodrich. 

Goodrich  brought  news  that  the  law-and-order  party 
were  preparing  an  expedition  to  Charleston  to  round  up 
Curly  Bill.  Knowing  the  habits  of  his  burly  aide,  John 
Ringo  was  reasonably  sure  that  the  crusaders  would  find 


THE  PASSING  OF  JOHN  RINGO  147 

the  latter  the  worse  for  whisky  and  bring  him  back  a 
captive.  His  natural  itching  to  depart  from  custody  was 
aggravated  by  the  feeling  that  his  presence  in  the  cow- 
town  by  the  San  Pedro  was  badly  needed.  He  urged 
Goodrich  to  hurry  to  the  bank  and  get  the  bail-money. 

The  conference  took  place  in  Johnny  Behan's  office, 
and  after  the  lawyer 's  departure  on  this  errand  the  out 
law  remained  there  pacing  the  floor.  Half  an  hour 
passed;  a  man  had  brought  Ringo's  pony  from  the  0.  K. 
corral  and  left  it  at  the  hitching-rack  before  the  court 
house.  Everything  was  in  readiness — except  the  cash. 
Finally  Goodrich  returned. 

"All  right,"  he  told  the  sheriff,  who  was  seated  at  his 
desk.  "I  've  got  the  bail  here,  Johnny.  Everything's 
arranged. '  * 

And  Johnny  Behan,  who  was,  if  the  truth  be  owned,  a 
very  easy-going  peace  officer  indeed,  bade  his  prisoner 
depart.  He  did  not  know — and  Goodrich  did  not  know — 
that  on  this  occasion  the  bailing  out  of  John  Ringo  was 
going  to  be  something  more  than  a  mere  formality. 

So  it  came  about  that  a  number  of  people  met  with 
surprises  this  same  morning.  Included  in  these  were  a 
delegation  from  the  law-and-order  party  who  rode  over 
to  Charleston  to  gather  in  Curly  Bill  but  got  no  further 
than  the  approach  to  the  bridge  which  spanned  the  San 
Pedro  River.  A  solitary  figure  at  the  other  end  of  the 
structure  made  them  draw  rein.  John  Ringo's  voice 
reached  them  from  across  the  stream. 

"Come  on,"  he  called.     "I  'm  waiting  for  you." 

Something  had  gone  wrong,  and  when  something  goes 
wrong  the  wise  general  does  well  to  investigate  before 
continuing  his  advance.  The  posse  deliberated  briefly; 


148          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

and  then  turned  back  for  Tombstone.  But  their 
astonishment  at  finding  the  leader  of  the  desperadoes  at 
large  was  as  nothing  compared  to  Johnny  Behan's  be 
wilderment  when  he  met  the  district  judge  in  the  court 
house  corridor  some  time  near  noon. 

"I  '11  be  ready  to  take  up  the  matter  of  that  man 
Ringo's  bail  in  a  few  minutes,"  Judge  Stilwell  said 
pleasantly. 

The  sheriff  remained  inarticulate  for  several  seconds. 
Finally— 

' '  Ringo ! "  he  managed  to  gasp.  ' '  Why,  he  's  gone.  I 
thought— 

Perf ervid  language  followed.  Johnny  Behan  had  been 
a  cow-boy  in  his  time,  and  the  court  had — in  his  un 
official  capacity — a  rather  large  vocabulary  of  his  own. 
In  the  end  certain  facts  began  to  outline  themselves 
through  the  sulphuric  haze :  the  district  attorney  had 
offered  objections  to  the  proffered  bail. 

"I  '11  take  this  matter  up,"  the  judge  told  the  stricken 
sheriff,  "to-morrow  morning,  and  I  '11  hold  you  re 
sponsible  for  the  appearance  of  the  defendant  in  court  at 
that  time." 

The  news  flew  fast,  and  when  the  posse  returned  from 
Charleston  they  found  the  town  of  Tombstone  discussing 
Johnny  Behan's  predicament.  Being  wise  politicians, 
the  leaders  of  the  law-and-order  party  kept  to  them 
selves  the  information  as  to  John  Ringo's  whereabouts. 
That  evening  they  called  a  meeting  of  their  followers, 
and  a  second  posse  set  forth  through  the  darkness  for 
Charleston. 

There  were  some  fifty-odd  of  them,  well  armed  and 
enthusiastic.  Their  purpose  was  to  bring  the  outlaw  to 


THE  PASSING  OF  JOHN  RINGO          149 

the  court-house  the  next  morning.  Thereby  the  reform 
movement  should  gain  much  prestige — and  the  sheriff 
lose  standing. 

But  Charleston  was  full  of  stock-rustlers  and  bad  men 
that  night,  and  when  the  members  of  the  law-and-order 
party  rode  into  the  place  they  found  themselves  sur- 
sounded  by  a  half  a  hundred  of  the  worst  men  in  the 
Territory  of  Arizona.  John  Ringo  had  been  looking 
for  further  trouble,  and  his  forces  were  so  well  disposed 
that  the  invaders  had  their  choice  between  surrender  and 
being  massacred. 

They  yielded  to  necessity  like  wise  men  and  gave  over 
their  arms  to  their  captors,  who  forthwith  took  them  to 
the  nearest  saloon  and  bought  them  many  drinks.  It 
was  during  this  portion  of  the  proceedings  that  Curly 
Bill,  who  had  led  the  ambushing-party,  learned  whom 
the  prisoners  were  seeking.  He  brought  the  news  to 
John  Ringo. 

"So  it  's  me  they  're  after,"  the  outlaw  said. 

"And  it  looks,"  said  Curly  Bill,  "like  Johnny  Behan 
is  in  a  mighty  tight  box,  the  way  things  has  turned  out." 

Knowing  the  grudge  which  his  friend  held  against 
the  sheriff,  he  was  not  surprised  to  see  John  Ringo 's  face 
grow  darker  and  the  light  in  his  eyes  more  devilish. 

"I  tell  you  what,"  the  latter  bade  him  after  some 
moments  of  thinking.  "You  keep  those  fellows  here  to 
night.  Don't  let  one  of  them  leave  Charleston." 

And  Curly  Bill  departed  to  see  that  the  command  was 
obeyed.  They  say  that  the  celebration  which  attended 
the  holding  of  the  captives  was  one  of  the  large  events 
in  the  tumultuous  history  of  the  cow-town  by  the  San 
Pedro,  and  those  who  witnessed  it  are  unanimous  in 


150          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

stating  that  the  Tombstone  contingent  upheld  the  rep 
utation  of  their  camp  when  it  came  to  whisky-drinking. 
It  was  late  the  next  day  before  the  last  of  them  rode 
back  through  the  foot-hills  of  the  Mule  Mountains  to 
their  homes.  But  all  of  this  is  apart  from  the  story. 

The  point  is  that  John  Ringo  saddled  up  that  very 
night  and  journeyed  to  Tombstone,  where  he  sought 
out  young  Billy  Breckenbridge. 

'  *  Heard  there  was  some  trouble  about  my  being  turned 
loose,"  he  announced  when  he  had  roused  the  deputy 
from  his  slumbers,  "and  I  did  n't  know  but  what  maybe 
you  'd  lose  your  job  if  Johnny  Behan  got  turned  out 
of  office." 

Wherefore  it  came  about  that  when  court  convened 
in  the  morning  and  the  matter  of  John  Ringo  's  bail  was 
brought  up  the  prisoner  was  produced  to  the  utter  aston 
ishment  of  all  concerned — except  himself  and  the  man 
who  had  allowed  him  to  recover  his  confiscated  re 
volvers. 

Within  the  hour  John  Ringo  walked  out  of  the  court 
house  under  bond  to  insure  his  appearance  at  the  trial. 
And  no  one  expected  the  case  to  come  to  anything.  In 
short,  the  situation  was  unchanged,  and  the  head  men  of 
the  reform  movement  settled  down  to  bide  their  oppor 
tunity  of  killing  off  the  bigger  desperadoes,  which  was 
apparently  the  only  way  of  settling  the  issue. 

So  John  Ringo  went  his  way,  a  marked  man,  and 
many  a  trigger-finger  itched  when  he  appeared  in  Tomb 
stone;  many  a  bold  spirit  longed  to  take  a  shot  at  him. 
But  the  knowledge  of  his  deadliness  kept  him  from  be 
ing  made  a  target. 


THE  PASSING  OF  JOHN  RINGO          151 

He  went  his  way,  and  it  was  a  bad  way.  Dark  deeds 
piled  up  to  fill  the  debit  pages  of  his  life's  ledger. 

If  he  was  influenced  by  those  letters,  which  came  regu 
larly  to  remind  him  of  gentle  womanhood  disgraced  by 
his  wild  career,  it  was  only  to  make  him  drink  harder. 
And  the  more  he  drank  the  blacker  his  mood  became. 
Those  who  rode  with  him  have  said  so.  A  bad  man, 
there  is  no  doubt  about  it ;  and  big  in  his  badness,  which 
made  it  all  the  worse. 

There  came  a  blazing  day  in  the  late  summer,  one 
of  those  days  when  the  Arizona  sun  flays  the  wide,  arid 
valleys  without  surcease,  when  the  naked  rock  on  the 
mountain  heights  is  cloaked  in  trembling  heat-waves 
and  the  rattlesnakes  seek  the  darkest  crevices  among 
the  cliffs.  Deputy  Sheriff  Breckenbridge  on  his  way 
back  to  Tombstone  from  some  errand  in  the  eastern  end 
of  the  county  was  riding  through  Middle  Pass  in  the 
Dragoons. 

As  he  came  forth  against  the  flaring  sky-line  at  the 
summit  he  saw  a  rider  coming  toward  him  from  the 
west.  He  turned  to  one  side  where  the  lay  of  the  lancl 
gave  him  a  vantage-point,  loosened  his  revolver  in  its 
holster,  and  awaited  the  traveler's  closer  approach. 

Some  moments  passed ;  the  pony  drew  nearer,  and  the 
deputy  withdrew  the  hand  which  was  resting  on  his 
weapon's  butt.  His  face  relaxed. 

' '  Hello  there,  John, ' '  he  called,  and  Ringo  rode  up  to 
him  in  silence.  "Hot  day/'  Breckenbridge  announced 
cheerfully. 

The  desperado  swore  at  the  sun  in  the  drawling  mono 
tone  wherein  your  artist  at  profanity  intones  his  curses 


152          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

when  he  means  them.  His  face  was  a  good  shade 
darker  than  usual;  his  eyes  were  satanic.  He  reached 
to  his  hip  and  brought  forth  a  flask  of  whisky. 

''Have  a  drink. "  He  uttered  it  rather  as  a  demand 
than  an  offer. 

The  deputy  took  the  bottle  and  made  pretense  of 
swallowing  some  of  the  lukewarm  liquor.  The  outlaw 
laughed  sourly,  snatched  it  from  him,  and  drained  it. 

"Got  another  quart,"  he  announced  as  he  flung  the 
empty  flask  against  a  boulder. 

"Better  hit  it  mighty  light,"  Breckenbridge  advised. 
' '  The  sun  's  bad  when  you  get  down  there  in  the  valley. ' ' 

He  waved  his  hand  toward  the  wide  flat  lands  which 
lay  shimmering  like  an  enormous  lake  a  thousand  feet 
below  them.  Bingo  raised  his  somber  face  toward  the 
blazing  heavens  and  launched  another  volley  of  curses 
upon  them  before  he  rode  away.  And  that  was  the 
last  time  young  Breckenbridge  saw  him  alive. 

The  thing  which  took  place  afterward  no  man  beheld 
save  John  Ringo,  and  his  lips  were  sealed  for  all  time 
when  others  came  upon  him.  But  the  desert  holds 
tracks  well,  and  the  men  of  southeastern  Arizona  were 
able  to  read  trails  as  you  or  I  would  read  plain  print. 
So  they  picked  the  details  of  that  final  chapter  from 
the  hot  sands  of  the  Sulphur  Springs  Valley  as  they  are 
set  down  here.  v 

Morning  was  drawing  on  toward  noon  when  John 
Ringo 's  pony  bore  him  downward  from  the  living  gran 
ite  pinnacles  to  the  glaring  plain.  Noon  was  passing 
as  he  jogged  onward  across  the  Sulphur  Springs  Valley. 

To  this  day,  when  ranchers  have  drawn  floods  of 
limpid  water  from  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  the  place 


THE  PASSING  OF  JOHN  EINGO          153 

sees  long  periods  whose  heat  is  punishing.  At  that  time 
the  whole  land  was  a  desert ;  a  flat  floor,  patched  in  spots 
by  alkali  deposits,  girded  round  by  steep-walled  moun 
tain  ranges.  Cacti  grew  there,  and  huge  tufts  of 
Spanish  bayonets. 

John  Ringo's  pony  jogged  on  and  on;  the  fine  dust 
rose  from  its  hoofs,  surrounding  animal  and  rider  like  a 
moving  wraith  of  fog,  settling  down  upon  their  sweating 
skins  in  a  whitish-gray  film  which  stung  like  fire.  Be 
fore  them  the  mirage  wavered  like  an  enormous,  vague 
tapestry  stirring  in  a  breeze. 

But  of  breeze  there  was  none,  nor  was  there  any  sign 
of  water  save  that  phantom  of  a  lake — dead  now  for 
ages — which  kept  its  distance  always  ahead.  And  the 
sun  climbed  higher ;  its  scourgings  grew  ever  fiercer. 

Scourged  also  by  thoughts  and  memories  which  he 
had  never  revealed  to  men — save  only  as  he  had  hinted 
at  them  on  that  other  afternoon  to  Breckenbridge — the 
bad  man  drank  the  lukewarm  whisky  as  he  rode.  And 
the  liquor  did  its  work  until  when  he  had  gone  two 
hours  from  the  foot  of  the  pass  he  realized  that  it  was 
overcoming  him. 

He  drew  rein,  dismounted,  and  sought  the  shade  of  a 
clump  of  soto-bushes.  But  before  he  flung  himself 
upon  the  baking  sands  he  took  off  his  boots  and,  tying 
their  tops  together,  hung  them  over  his  saddle-horn. 
The  pony  he  turned  loose  with  the  reins  down  cow-boy 
fashion.  After  which  he  yielded  to  the  whisky  and 
knew  no  more. 

The  sun  was  still  glaring  in  the  cloudless  sky  when  he 
came  back  to  his  senses;  and  the  torture  of  that  thirst 
which  comes  after  heavy  drinking  was  upon  him.  Ho 


154          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

got  to  his  feet.  The  pony  had  gone.  Afterward  the 
searchers  tracked  the  animal  to  the  Sulphur  Springs 
ranch,  where  it  had  come  with  the  boots  hanging  to  the 
saddle-horn. 

John  Ringo  was  alone,  a  speck  in  the  middle  of  the 
shimmmering  plain,  and  there  was  no  water  for  miles. 
He  started  walking  eastward  toward  the  pass  which 
leads  over  into  the  San  Simon.  The  cactus  did  its 
work ;  the  alkali  sands  scalded  his  bleeding  feet ;  he  took 
off  his  shirt,  tore  it  into  strips  and  bound  them  round 
his  ankles  for  footgear;  and  when  the  strips  were  cut 
through  he  used  his  undershirt,  until  finally  he  walked 
barefooted  and  the  blood-drops  showed  beside  his  tracks. 

Toward  the  end  the  same  blindness  which  comes  to 
thirst-maddened  cattle  seized  upon  him.  When  they 
found  him  he  was  within  a  stone's  throw  of  water  and 
the  sound  of  the  stream  must  have  been  in  his  ears,  for 
his  footprints  showed  where  he  had  circled  and  zig 
zagged,  striving  to  reach  the  spot  whence  that  limpid 
murmuring  came.  Among  the  cartridges  in  his 
belt  were  two  whose  lead  was  deeply  dented  by  his  teeth 
as  he  chewed  upon  them  in  the  vain  hope  of  moistening 
his  lips. 

He  was  seated  on  a  boulder  between  two  dwarf  live- 
oaks  and  his  big  forty-five  revolver  lay  beside  him,  with 
one  empty  shell.  The  bullet-hole  was  fairly  between  his 
eyes,  all  powder-marked. 

And  so  they  knew  just  how  he  died ;  and  young  Billy 
Breckenbridge,  who  came  over  into  no-man's-land  a  day 
or  two  later,  was  able  to  piece  out  the  story  by  back 
tracking  along  that  trail  through  the  sands;  able  to 
read  those  signs  from  the  foot  of  the  Dragoons  on  across 


THE  PASSING  OF  JOHN  BINGO  155 

the  valley;  and  able  also — because  he  had  seen  that 
letter — to  realize  the  torture  of  memories  which  had 
come  along  with  the  torture  of  thirst  to  goad  John 
Ringo  on  to  self-destruction. 

In  this  manner  it  came  about  that  the  outlaws  of 
Cochise  County  lost  their  leader ;  and  now  that  the  man 
of  brains  was  gone  it  became  possible  for  events  to  shape 
up,  as  they  did  soon  afterward,  toward  the  big  Earp- 
Clanton  gun-fight. 

The  old-timers  are  unanimous  in  saying  that  had  John 
Ringo  been  alive  that  battle  wherein  the  leaders  of  the 
Earp  faction  slew  several  of  the  biggest  desperadoes 
would  never  have  taken  place  as  it  did.  The  forces  would 
have  been  differently  disposed  than  they  were  on  that 
bloody  morning  when  Billy  Clanton  and  the  McLowery 
boys  died  in  Tombstone's  street  by  the  0.  K.  corral;  the 
chances  are  the  victory  would  have  gone  the  other  way. 
To  this  day  they  tell  how  Ringo 's  passing  was  the  begin 
ning  of  the  end;  how  Curly  Bill  vanished  soon  after 
ward;  how  the  stage-robbers  and  rustlers  became  dis 
organized  and  were  no  longer  any  match  for  the  law- 
and-order  faction. 

And  when  the  old-timers,  who  witnessed  these  wild 
doings,  recount  the  history  of  the  wind-up,  laying  the 
cau^  as  has  been  stated,  they  give  the  credit  to  the 
man  whom  they  believe  entitled  to  it;  which  brings  us 
back  to  Buckskin  Frank. 

On  that  blazing  day  when  John  Ringo  rode  out  into 
no-man's-land  Buckskin  Frank  was  away  from  Tomb 
stone.  And  this  time  there  were  more  urgent  reasons 
for  his  departure  from  the  camp  than  the  mere  seeking 
after  plunder.  He  was,  as  has  been  said,  a  bad  man ;  a 


156          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

bad  man  of  the  type  who  can  kill  from  in  front  but 
relishes  best  that  opportunity  which  offers  the  back  of 
his  enemy  as  a  target. 

During  the  long  period  while  the  outlaws  were  swag 
gering  down  Tombstone's  streets,  defying  the  leaders  of 
the  law-and-order  movement,  the  two-gun  man  managed 
to  cling  to  the  good  graces  of  the  Earp  faction;  just 
as  in  these  days  you  may  have  seen  a  crooked  ward- 
heeler  hanging  to  the  skirts  of  a  good-government 
crusade.  Nobody  loved  him,  but  there  were  those  who 
thought  he  might  be  useful.  He  traded  on  their  names 
and — when  there  was  dirty  business  to  be  done,  as  there 
always  has  been  since  polities  began — he  was  there 
to  do  it.  Also  he  was  right  there  to  ask  favors  in 
return. 

So  it  came  that  the  knowledge  of  his  killings  spread 
abroad;  men  told  how  he  had  slain  one  victim  who  was 
drinking  in  a  dance-hall  when  the  bullet  entered  his 
back;  how  another  had  fallen,  shot  from  behind  in  a 
dark  alley.  But  prosecutions  never  followed,  and  the 
buckskin-clad  figure  with  its  bad,  handsome  face  be 
came  a  sinister  object  in  Tombstone's  streets. 

However,  a  man  can  not  keep  up  this  sort  of  thing 
forever  without  getting  an  ill  name,  and  the  time  came 
when  Buckskin  Frank  was  beginning  to  be  a  source  of 
embarrassment  to  those  who  had  thus  far  tolerated 
him.  On  top  of  which  his  prestige  was  suddenly 
threatened. 

There  was,  in  the  camp,  a  fellow  by  the  name  of 
Nigger  Jim,  one  of  those  black  negroes  whose  blood  is 
undiluted  by  the  white  man's;  a  former  slave;  more  than 
six  feet  tall  and — to  this  very  day — as  straight  as  a 


THE  PASSING  OF  JOHN  BINGO          157 

ramrod.  He  had  fought  Apaches  and  on  more  than  one 
occasion  held  his  own  against  outlaws;  and  the  early 
settlers,  of  whom  he  was  one,  treated  him  as  an 
equal. 

This  Nigger  Jim  had  staked  a  silver  claim  over  Con 
tention  way,  and  one  day  Buckskin  Frank  jumped  the 
property.  The  owner  heard  that  the  bad  man  had  put 
up  new  location  notices  in  place  of  his  own  and  hastened 
to  the  place  to  investigate.  He  found  Frank  camped 
on  the  ground,  well  armed  and  ready  to  maintain  pos 
session. 

What  followed  does  not  amount  to  much  when  it 
conies  to  action  with  which  to  adorn  a  tale. 

Nigger  Jim  walked  up  to  the  bad  man,  his  hand  on  his 
revolver-butt.  The  luck  which  sometimes  looks  out  for 
the  righteous  party  in  a  quarrel  was  with  him  to  the 
extent  of  seeing  to  it  that  the  meeting  took  place  out  in 
the  open  where  there  was  no  chance  for  ambush. 

The  break  was  even.  And  the  black  man  was  de 
termined  to  see  the  issue  through,  willing  to  abide  by 
whatever  consequences  might  follow.  Moreover  he  had 
earned  his  reputation  with  a  six-shooter.  So,  as  has 
been  said,  he  came  walking  up  to  Buckskin  Frank — 
from  in  front. 

And  Buckskin  Frank  allowed  him  to  approach  until 
the  two  stood  facing  each  other  out  there  among  the 
rocks  and  Spanish  bayonets.  Then  the  two-gun  man 
spoke,  holding  forth  his  right  hand. 

"I  heard  some  parties  were  jumping  your  claim, 
Jim,"  said  he,  ''and,  being  near,  I  thought  I  'd  come 
over  and  look  out  for  you." 

"Thanky,"  said  Nigger  Jim,  but  made  no  offer  to 


158          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

take  the  extended  hand ;  nor  did  he  turn  his  back  upon 
the  bad  man,  who  evidently  did  not  think  the  claim 
worth  the  hazards  of  an  honest  gun-fight,  for  he  left 
soon  afterward. 

In  Tombstone  Nigger  Jim  kept  silent  regarding  the 
incident,  but  the  news  leaked  out  within  a  week  or  two 
when  Buckskin  Frank  tried  to  slay  the  black  man  from 
behind  and  was  prevented  by  a  woman  who  threw  her 
arms  over  him  and  held  him  until  the  prospective  victim 
turned  his  head  and  took  in  the  situation.  With  the 
spread  of  the  story  Frank  saw  that  Tombstone  was  no 
place  for  him  at  present  and  he  left  the  camp. 
Whereby  it  happened  that  he  was  over  in  the  San 
Simon  on  that  hot  day  when  John  Kingo  came  across 
the  Dragoon  Mountains.  And  on  the  morning  when  the 
body  was  discovered  he  was  riding  through  the  pass  on 
some  dubious  errand  or  other. 

News  traveled  slowly  in  those  days.  Frequently  it 
came  to  its  destination  sadly  garbled.  On  this  occasion 
young  Billy  Breckenbridge  was  the  only  man  who 
brought  the  facts  back  to  Tombstone;  and  he  arrived 
there  long  after  Buckskin  Frank. 

For  the  two-gun  man  had  seen  his  opportunity  to 
make  men  forget  that  incident  wherein  he  had  figured 
so  poorly  against  Nigger  Jim,  and  had  spurred  his  pony 
all  the  way  to  the  county  seat,  where  he  told  his  story — 
how  he  had  seen  the  desperado  sitting  under  the  dwarf 
live-oaks,  had  stalked  him  as  a  man  stalks  big  game,  and 
shot  him  through  the  head.  And  just  to  give  his  tale 
versimilitude  he  said  he  had  done  the  killing  from 
behind. 

The  times  were  brisk ;  one  shooting  came  so  fast  on  the 


THE  PASSING  OF  JOHN  RINGO          159 

heels  of  its  predecessor  that  every  affair  in  its  turn 
swiftly  passed  from  public  attention.  By  the  time  that 
Deputy  Sheriff  Breckenbridge  arrived  with  the  facts 
people  were  turning  their  minds  to  the  big  Benson  stage 
hold-up.  And  so  Buckskin  Prank's  story  lived,  and  to 
this  day  in  speaking  of  that  bad  man  the  old-timers 
give  him  grudging  credit  for  having  slain  the  big  "He 
Wolf." 


JOHN  SLAUGHTER'S  WAY 

IT  was  springtime  in  southwestern  Texas  and  John 
Slaughter  was  gathering  a  great  herd  near  the 
mouth  of  Devil's  River  for  the  long  drive  northward 
over  the  Pecos  trail.  Thousands  of  cattle  were  moving 
slowly  in  a  great  mass,  obliterating  miles  of  the  land 
scape,  trampling  out  clouds  of  dust  which  rose  into  the 
blue  sky;  the  constant  bellowing  came  down  the  wind 
as  a  deep,  pulsating  moan  which  was  audible  for  miles. 

The  Man  from  Bitter  Creek  reined  in  his  horse  and 
turned  in  the  saddle  to  look  back  upon  that  scene.  He 
was  a  small  man  with  hard,  quick  eyes;  they  grew 
harder  as  they  rested  on  that  wealth  of  beeves. 

In  the  wild  country  farther  up  the  Pecos  the  Man 
from  Bitter  Creek  was  known  by  the  name  of  Gallagher. 
Among  the  riders  who  roved  over  that  Land  Beyond  the 
Law,  taking  their  toll  from  the  north-going  herds  as  gray 
wolves  take  it  under  cover  of  the  night,  he  passed  as  the 
big  "He  Wolf,"  the  leader  of  the  pack.  Wyoming's 
sage-brush  hills  gave  sepulture  to  eleven  of  his  dead, 
and  since  he  had  fled  hither  he  had  added  two  graves  to 
the  boot-hill  cemeteries  of  the  Southwest. 

Now  as  he  gazed  over  John  Slaughter's  cattle,  he 
promised  himself  that  when  they  came  on  into  the  region 
where  he  maintained  his  supremacy,  he  would  seize 
them  and,  at  the  same  time,  increase  his  grim  list  of 

victims  to  fourteen. 

160 


JOHN  SLAUGHTER'S  WAY  161 

It  was  an  era  in  some  respects  very  much  like  the 
feudal  days  of  Europe,  a  time  of  champions  and 
challenges  and  deeds  of  arms,  a  period  when  strong  men 
took  definite  stands  for  right  or  wrong  and  were  ready  at 
all  times  to  defend  those  positions  with  their  lives.  The 
Man  from  Bitter  Creek  had  received  John  Slaughter's 
gage  within  the  hour.  He  had  dismounted  from  his 
pony  at  the  cattle-buyer's  camp,  attracted  by  the 
spectacle  of  that  enormous  herd  destined  to  pass 
through  the  country  where  he  and  his  companions  held 
sway,  and  he  had  hung  about  the  place  to  see  what  he 
could  see. 

He  noted  with  satisfaction  that  the  cattle  were  sleek 
and  fat  for  this  time  of  the  year;  and  the  satisfaction 
grew  as  he  peered  through  the  dust-clouds  at  the  riders 
who  were  handling  them,  for  every  one  of  the  wiry 
ponies  that  passed  him  carried  a  swarthy  vaquero — 
and  half  a  dozen  of  those  Mexicans  would  not  be  a 
match  for  one  of  the  hard-eyed  rustlers  who  were  wait 
ing  along  the  upper  Pecos  in  that  spring  of  1876.  Just 
as  he  was  congratulating  himself  on  such  easy  pickings 
the  cattle-buyer  noticed  him. 

John  Slaughter  was  in  his  early  thirties  but  his  lips 
had  settled  into  an  unrelaxing  line,  and  his  eyes  had 
grown  narrow  from  the  habit  of  the  long  sun-smitten 
trails.  He  was  black-bearded,  barely  of  middle  stature, 
a  parsimonious  man  when  it  came  to  using  words. 
When  he  was  a  boy  fighting  under  the  banner  of  the 
Lost  Cause  he  sickened,  and  his  colonel  sent  him  home, 
where  he  did  his  recuperating  as  a  lieutenant  of  the 
Texas  rangers  fighting  Comanche  Indians  and  border 
outlaws. 


162          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

Then  he  drove  cattle  into  Kansas  over  the  Chis- 
holm  and  Western  trails  and  got  further  seasoning 
in  warfare  against  marauders,  both  red  and  white.  To 
maintain  his  rights  and  hold  his  property  against  armed 
assault  had  become  part  of  his  every-day  life ;  guarded- 
ness  was  a  habit  like  those  narrowed  eyes.  And  when 
he  recognized  the  Man  from  Bitter  Creek,  whose  repu 
tation  he  well  knew,  he  lost  no  time  in  confronting  him. 

So  they  faced  each  other,  two  veteran  paladins  who 
had  been  riding  under  hostile  banners  ever  since  they 
first  bore  arms;  and  John  Slaughter  delivered  his  ulti 
matum  in  three  syllables. 

"Hit  the  trail,"  he  said,  and  clamped  his  lips  into  a 
tight  line  as  if  he  begrudged  wasting  that  many  words. 

His  eyes  had  become  two  dark  slits. 

It  was  a  case  of  leave  or  fight  and  the  Man  from 
Bitter  Creek  had  never  allowed  such  a  challenge  to  go 
unanswered  by  his  gun.  But  during  the  moment  while 
he  and  John  Slaughter  stood  looking  into  each  other's 
eyes  he  reflected  swiftly,  and  it  occurred  to  him  that 
it  would  be  wise  to  postpone  this  killing  until  the 
cattle-buyer  had  brought  the  herd  on  into  the  upper 
country  where,  without  their  employer,  the  Mexican 
vaqueros  would  be  of  no  more  consequence  than  so  many 
sheep. 

'That  was  an  inspiration:  thousands  of  cattle  for  his 
own,  where  he  had  hoped  to  steal  a  few  hundred  at 
the  very  outside.  He  felt  that  he  could  well  afford 
to  mount  his  pony  and  ride  away  in  silence.  Now 
as  he  settled  himself  in  his  saddle  after  that  last  look 
backward,  his  heart  was  light  with  the  thought  of  the 
wealth  which  was  to  come  to  him  within  the  next  two 


JOHN  SLAUGHTER'S  WAY  163 

months.     He  urged  the  pony  forward  at  a  gallop  to 
ward  the  Land  Beyond  the  Law. 

The  days  went  by,  and  late  springtime  found  the  Man 
from  Bitter  Creek  in  the  upper  river  country  which 
lies  just  west  of  the  great  Llano  Estacado.  Among 
those  lonely  hills  the  badness  of  the  whole  frontier 
had  crystallized  that  year.  Outlaw  and  murderer, 
renegade,  rustler,  and  common  horse-thief — all  for  whom 
the  eastern  trails  had  been  growing  too  hot — had  ridden 
into  this  haven  beyond  the  range  of  the  boldest  sheriff 
until  even  the  vigilance  committee  could  not  function 
here  for  the  simple  reason  that  there  were  too  many  to 
adorn  the  ropes  and  too  few  to  pull  them. 

The  ranchers  of  Lincoln  County  were  starting  in 
business,  and  the  temptation  to  increase  one's  herds 
by  means  of  rope  and  running-iron — a  temptation  which 
was  always  strong  on  the  frontier — was  augmented 
among  some  by  a  wholesome  regard  for  their  own  lives 
and  property:  better  to  give  shelter  to  outlaws  and 
buy  stolen  cows  for  a  dollar  or  two  a  head,  than  to  de 
fend  your  own  stock  against  an  overwhelming  force 
of  dead  shots.  There  were  others — and  these  included 
several  of  the  bigger  cow-men — who  held  that  this  was 
their  territory  and,  deeming  all  outsiders  interlopers, 
levied  such  toll  of  plunder  on  them  as  the  old  feudal 
barons  levied  on  travelers  by  the  Rhine  in  medieval 
times. 

That  was  the  way  they  reasoned;  and  the  rustlers 
had  easy  pickings,  stampeding  range  cattle  across  the 
bedding-grounds  of  the  trail  herds,  gathering  unto 
themselves  the  strays,  disposing  of  their  loot  right  on 
the  spot.  They  were  taking  full  advantage  of  the  op- 


164          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

port-unity,  and  the  Man  from  Bitter  Creek  was  getting 
his  share  of  the  spoils. 

But  all  of  this  struck  Gallagher  as  petty  business 
now;  he  was  waiting  impatiently  for  John  Slaughter's 
herd.  At  Chisum's  ranch,  where  he  and  a  number  of 
his  companions  had  enforced  their  presence  as  unbid 
den  guests  since  the  passing  of  the  spring,  he  proclaimed 
his  plan  openly  after  the  manner  of  his  breed;  and  he 
even  went  so  far  as  to  exhibit  a  forged  power  of  attor 
ney  by  virtue  of  which  he  intended  selling  the  beeves 
in  the  Northern  market,  after  he  had  killed  their  owner 
and  driven  off  the  Mexicans. 

"I  '11  lay  for  him  up  Fort  Sumner  way,"  he  told  his 
fellow-wolves,  nor  did  he  take  the  trouble  to  lower  his 
voice  because  he  saw  several  cow-boys  from  neigh 
boring  outfits  among  his  auditors.  It  was  a  tradition 
among  those  who  lived  by  the  forty-five  thus  to  brag 
and  then — make  good.  And  it  was  a  firmly  established 
habit  in  Lincoln  County  to  mind  your  own  business ;  so 
the  project,  while  it  became  generally  known,  created 
no  excitement. 

The  Man  from  Bitter  Creek  went  up  the  river  to 
the  neighborhood  of  Fort  Sumner  when  John  Slaugh 
ter's  herd  drew  near  the  Chisum  ranch.  He  made  his 
camp  and  bided  the  arrival  of  the  cattle;  but  that 
arrival  did  not  materialize.  He  was  beginning  to  won 
der  what  could  have  delayed  them,  for  the  fords  were 
good  and  this  particular  section  was  one  where  no 
drover  cared  to  linger.  And  while  he  was  wondering 
a  rider  came  to  him  with  tidings  that  brought  oaths 
of  astonishment  to  his  lips.  John  Slaughter  had  taken 


JOHN  SLAUGHTER'S  WAY  165 

his  herd  off  the  trail  and  made  camp  at  the  Chisum 
ranch. 

Now  every  one  in  the  country  knew  that  the  Man 
from  Bitter  Creek  was  holding  down  the  Chisum  place 
that  season,  and  the  action  was  nothing  more  nor  less 
than  a  direct  challenge.  It  did  not  matter  whether  sub 
lime  ignorance  or  sublime  daring  prompted  it;  it  was 
defiance  in  either  case.  There  was  only  one  thing  for 
Gallagher  to  do — get  the  killing  over  in  quick  time. 
Moreover  he  must  attend  to  the  affair  by  himself — 
for  just  as  surely  as  he  took  others  to  help,  his  pres 
tige  was  going  to  be  lowered.  So  he  saddled  up  at 
once  and  rode  back  to  Chisum 's  with  a  double-barreled 
shotgun  across  his  lap  and  two  single-action  forty- 
five  revolvers  at  his  hips. 

He  was  an  old  hand  at  ambush  and  so  he  took  no 
chances  when  he  drew  near  the  ranch  but  reconnoitered 
a  bit  from  a  convenient  eminence.  The  house  stood 
on  the  summit  of  a  knoll;  the  land  sloped  away  be 
fore  it  to  the  river,  bare  of  shrubs  or  trees.  Those 
of  the  Mexicans  who  were  not  riding  herd  were  down 
among  the  cottonwoods  by  the  stream,  busy  over  some 
washing.  In  the  middle  of  the  open  slope,  two  hun 
dred  yards  or  so  from  the  ranch  buildings  and  a  good 
quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  nearest  vaqueros,  a  solitary 
figure  showed.  It  was  the  cattleman.  No  chance  for 
ambush  here.  The  Man  from  Bitter  Creek  spurred 
his  pony  to  a  dead  run  and  came  on  blithely  to  shoot 
his  way  to  wealth. 

John  Slaughter  watched  him  approaching  and  waited 
until  he  was  within  easy  range.  Whereat  he  picked 


166          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

up  a  forty-four  caliber  rifle  and  shot  his  horse  from 
under  him. 

Pony  and  rider  crashed  down  together  in  a  thick  cloud 
of  dust.  The  Man  from  Bitter  Creek  sprang  to  his 
feet  and  the  flame  of  his  revolver  made  a  bright  orange 
streak  in  the  gray-white  haze.  He  left  his  shotgun 
where  it  had  fallen;  the  distance  was  too  great  for  it. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  it  was  over-long  range  for  a 
Colt  forty-five ;  and  now,  as  he  came  on  seeking  to  close 
in,  it  occurred  to  Gallagher  that  his  prospective  victim 
had  used  excellent  judgment  in  selecting  a  weapon  with 
reference  to  this  battleground.  Evidently  he  was  en 
gaged  with  one  who  knew  some  things  about  the 
deadly  game  himself. 

He  took  good  care  to  keep  weaving  about  from  side 
to  side  during  his  advance,  in  order  that  the  bead  of 
that  Winchester  might  find  no  resting-place  with  his 
body  outlined  before  it.  And  he  kept  his  revolvers  busy 
throwing  lead.  One  bullet  was  all  it  needed  to  do  the 
work  and  he  was  trying  hard  to  put  one  into  the  proper 
place,  using  all  the  skill  he  had  attained  in  long  prac 
tice  under  fire,  when  a  shot  from  John  Slaughter's 
rifle  broke  his  arm.  The  Texan  was  firing  slowly,  lining 
his  sights  carefully  every  time  before  he  pressed  the 
trigger.  The  Man  from  Bitter  Creek  was  darting  to 
and  fro;  his  revolver  bullets  were  raising  little  clouds 
of  dust  about  the  cattleman.  He  was  nearing  the  area 
wherein  the  forty-five  revolver  was  more  deadly  than 
the  clumsier  rifle,  when  John  Slaughter  shot  him 
through  the  body. 

But  he  was  made  of  tough  fiber  and  the  extreme 
shock  that  would  leave  some  men  stunned  and  prostrate 


JOHN  SLAUGHTER'S  WAY  167 

only  made  him  stagger  a  little.  His  revolver  was  spit 
ting  an  intermittent  stream  of  fire  and  it  continued  this 
after  a  second  slug  through  his  lungs  had  forced  him 
to  his  knees.  He  sank  down  fighting  and  got  his  third 
fatal  wound  before  the  cow-boys  carried  him  up  to  the 
ranch-house  to  die.  There,  after  the  manner  of  many 
another  wicked  son  of  the  border,  he  talked  the  matter 
over  dispassionately  with  his  slayer  and  in  the  final  mo 
ment  when  death  was  creeping  over  him  he  alluded 
lightly  to  his  own  misdeeds. 

" Anyhow  I  needed  killing  twenty  years  ago,"  he 
said. 

No  one  mourned  the  passing  of  the  Man  from  Bitter 
Creek;  the  members  of  the  pack  who  hunt  the  closest 
to  the  big  he  wolf  are  always  the  gladdest  to  see  him 
fall.  Nor  was  there  any  sorrowing  when  John  Slaugh 
ter  departed  for  the  north.  On  the  contrary  both  out 
laws  and  cow-men  watched  the  dust  of  his  herds  melt 
ing  into  the  sky  with  a  feeling  of  relief. 

The  outlaws  continued  as  the  weeks  went  by  to  speak 
his  name  with  the  hard-eyed  respect  due  one  whose 
death  would  bring  great  glory  on  his  slayer;  the  cow 
men  cherished  his  memory  more  gratefully  because  hun 
dreds  of  cattle  bearing  his  road-brand  were  grazing  on 
their  ranges.  All  hands  were  more  than  willing  to 
regard  the  incident  as  closed — all  save  John  Slaugh 
ter. 

That  was  not  his  way.  And  in  the  season  of  the  au 
tumn  round-up  when  the  ranchmen  of  Lincoln  County 
were  driving  their  cattle  down  out  of  the  breaks  into 
the  valley,  when  their  herds  were  making  great  crawling 
patches  of  brown  against  the  gray  of  the  surrounding 


168          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

landscape,  the  black-bearded  Texan  came  riding  back 
out  of  the  north.  He  visited  every  outfit  and  greeted 
the  owner  or  the  foreman  with  the  same  words  in  every 
case. 

"I  've  come  to  cut  your  herd  for  my  brand." 

That  was  the  law  of  the  cattle-trails;  every  man 
had  the  right  to  seek  out  his  strays  in  the  country 
through  which  he  had  passed.  But  it  was  not  the  cus 
tom  along  the  Pecos.  In  that  Land  Beyond  the  Law 
the  rule  of  might  transcended  any  rule  of  action  printed 
in  the  statute-books.  And  the  new  possessors  did  not 
fancy  giving  up  the  beeves  which  had  been  fattening 
on  their  ranges  during  all  these  weeks.  In  those  lonely 
hills  John  Slaughter  made  a  lonely  figure,  standing 
on  his  rights. 

But  those  who  gathered  around  him  when  he  made 
the  declaration  always  noticed  that  he  had  his  right 
hand  resting  on  his  pistol-butt  and  the  memory  of  what 
had  taken  place  at  Chisum's  ranch  was  still  fresh  in 
every  mind.  So  they  allowed  his  vaqueros  to  ride  into 
their  herds  and  in  silence  they  watched  them  drive  out 
the  animals  which  bore  his  brand.  Sometimes  the  af 
fair  came  to  an  issue  at  this  point. 

Chisum,  who  was  an  old-timer  in  the  country  and 
had  fought  Comanches  all  along  the  river  before  others 
had  dared  to  drive  up  the  trail,  produced  a  bill  of  sale 
for  sixty  rebranded  cattle  which  the  Texan's  vaqueros 
had  cut  out.  John  Slaughter  allowed  his  tight  lips  to 
relax  in  a  grim  smile. 

"You  bought  'em  all  right — but  too  cheap/'  he  said, 
and  ordered  his  foreman  to  take  them  away. 

Chisum  stormed  a  bit,  but  that  was  as  far  as  it  went. 


JOHN  SLAUGHTER'S  WAY  169 

And  John  Slaughter  rode  off  behind  his  vaqueros  with 
out  so  much  as  looking  back. 

At  Underwood's  there  was  trouble.  The  cattle-buyer 
had  recovered  110  steers  from  a  bunch  of  160,  and  when 
Underwood  heard  about  it  that  evening  he  stated,  in 
plain  and  profane  terms,  that  he  would  kill  John 
Slaughter  unless  those  beeves  were  turned  back  to  him. 
He  had  a  reputation  as  a  dead  shot  and  he  took  two 
friends,  who  were  known  as  good  gunmen,  along  with 
him.  They  set  forth  for  the  Texan's  camp.  All  three 
were  armed  with  rifles  beside  their  six-shooters. 

But  John  Slaughter  saw  them  coming,  for  he  was 
keeping  his  eyes  open  for  visitors  these  days,  and  dis 
mounted  on  the  opposite  side  of  his  pony.  He  received 
them  with  his  Winchester  leveled  across  his  saddle  and 
he  answered  their  hail  without  lifting  his  eyes  from 
the  sights. 

"Where  's  Underwood?"  he  demanded. 

The  cow-man  announced  his  identity;  it  took  more 
than  the  muzzle  of  a  rifle  to  silence  him. 

"I  bought  those  cattle  and  I  paid  for  them,"  he 
shouted. 

"And  I  '11  pay  you,"  Slaughter  proclaimed  across 
his  sights,  "just  as  sure  as  you  try  to  take  them 
away. ' ' 

This  was  about  all  there  was  to  the  debate.  The 
Texan  was  never  strong  when  it  came  to  conversation 
and  the  other  party  seemed  to  realize  that  further 
words  would  merely  amount  to  so  much  small  talk  un 
der  the  circumstances.  It  was  a  show-down — shoot  or 
ride  away.  And  the  muzzle  of  that  rifle  had  an  un 
pleasant  way  of  following  any  one  of  the  trio  who 


170          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

made  a  move  in  the  saddle.  They  were  men  of  parts, 
seasoned  fighters  in  a  fighting  land,  but  they  were  men 
of  sense.  They  rode  away. 

Some  miles  farther  down  the  river  John  Slaughter 
was  biding  the  arrival  of  two  half-breeds  and  a  pair 
of  rustlers  who  had  announced  their  intention  to  get 
him,  when  a  vaquero  whom  he  had  summoned  to  help 
him  receive  the  guests  showed  symptoms  of  reluctance. 
While  the  vaquero  was  talking  the  invaders  came  into 
view,  riding  fast. 

11  Fight  or  hit  the  road,"  John  Slaughter  bade  his 
swarthy  aide. 

The  latter  announced  his  choice  in  Spanish;  and  the 
cattle-buyer  paid  him  off  with  one  hand  while  he  pulled 
his  rifle  from  its  sheath  with  the  other.  The  discharged 
vaquero  did  not  wait  to  gather  his  scanty  personal 
possessions  and  started  down  the  road  as  fast  as  his 
legs  could  take  him,  but  before  he  was  out  of  sight  his 
former  employer  had  fortified  himself  behind  his  pony 
and  brought  the  rustlers  to  a  stand. 

A  cattleman  by  the  name  of  Richardson  tried  swear 
ing  out  a  warrant  as  a  means  of  recovering  the  beeves 
which  John  Slaughter  cut  out  of  his  herds,  but  the 
deputy  returned  with  the  paper  unserved. 

"He  told  me  to  keep  it  in  my  pocket,"  the  officer  ex 
plained.  "Said  I  couldn't  serve  it." 

Richardson  met  the  cattle-buyer  riding  to  his  ranch 
the  next  day,  having  heard  in  the  meantime  some  stories 
of  what  had  taken  place  farther  up  the  river 

"I  've  made  up  my  mind  to  withdraw  that  com 
plaint,"  the  ranchman  said.  "I  saw  a  chance  to  buy 
cheap  cattle  and  I  guess  I  got  off  wrong. ' ' 


JOHN  SLAUGHTER'S  WAY  171 

So  John  Slaughter  rode  on  southward  taking  with 
him  such  of  his  cattle  as  he  could  find,  and  men  who 
boasted  that  they  would  kill  him  before  nightfall  came 
back  to  their  companions  in  the  evening,  glad  that  they 
were  there  to  tell  the  tales  of  their  defeats.  Finally  he 
vanished  down  in  Texas  with  his  vaqueros  and  the  sal 
vaged  herd. 

When  he  had  come  up  the  river  that  spring  one  man 
was  seeking  his  life ;  now  he  left  behind  him  a  full  score 
who  were  as  eager  to  slay  him  as  the  Man  from  Bitter 
Creek  had  been.  But  the  outlaws  of  Lincoln  County 
did  not  see  him  again  for  three  years. 

The  next  spring  he  began  breaking  trail  to  a  new 
market  through  a  country  where  others  did  not  dare  to 
drive  their  herds.  The  market  was  southeastern  Ari 
zona,  on  whose  ranges  the  grass  grew  belly-deep ;  its 
stockmen,  who  were  beginning  operations  in  1877,  were 
in  sore  need  of  cattle.  But  the  interval  between  the  Bio 
Grande  and  these  virgin  pastures  was  a  savage  land; 
Victorio's  bands  of  turbaned  Apache  warriors  lurked 
among  its  shadowed  purple  mountains;  there  were  long 
stretches  of  blistering  desert  dotted  with  the  skeletons 
of  men  and  animals  who  had  died  of  thirst. 

John  Slaughter  brought  his  first  herd  west  of  the 
Pecos  with  the  coming  of  the  grass,  and  his  cow-boys 
lined  them  out  on  this  forbidding  route.  They  crossed 
wide  reaches  of  sand-dunes  and  alkali  flats — ninety 
miles  was  the  length  of  one  of  those  dry  drives — where 
they  never  saw  a  water-hole  for  days,  until  the  cattle 
went  blind  from  thirst  and  sun-glare  and  wandered 
aimlessly  over  the  baked  earth  lolling  their  tongues, 
moaning  for  drink,  ignoring  the  red-eyed  riders  who 


172          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

spurred  their  famished  ponies  through  the  stifling  dust- 
cloud  and  sought  by  shouts  and  flaming  pistols  to  hold 
them  to  the  proper  course. 

The  Apaches  watched  them  coming  from  the  heights 
and  crept  down  to  ambush  them,  but  John  Slaughter 
had  learned  Indian-fighting  while  he  was  still  in  his 
teens  until  he  knew  its  tricks  as  well  as  the  savages 
themselves;  and  he  led  his  cow-boys  out  against  them, 
picking  his  own  ground,  swooping  down  on  them 
from  vantage-points,  routing  them. 

The  herd  came  on  into  the  long  thin  valleys  which 
reach  like  fingers  from  northern  Mexico  to  the  Gila 
River.  On  the  San  Pedro  the  cow-boys  turned  them 
southward  and  the  outfit  made  its  last  camp  near 
where  the  town  of  Hereford  stands  to-day. 

Here  the  Texan  established  his  home  ranch,  for  he 
had  made  up  his  mind  to  forsake  the  valley  of  the  Rio 
Grande  for  this  new  country ;  and  hither  now,  over  the 
trail  which  he  had  broken,  his  men  drove  other  herds; 
he  sold  them  to  the  cow-men  of  southeastern  Arizona 
as  fast  as  they  came  in.  From  now  on  he  devoted 
himself  to  stocking  the  ranges  of  the;  Santa  Cruz, 
the  San  Pedro,  the  Sulphur  Springs,  and  the  San  Simon, 
turning  a  tawny  wilderness  into  a  pastoral  common 
wealth. 

For  he  brought  more  than  Texas  cattle  into  this  land 
which  had  heretofore  been  the  hunting-ground  of 
Apaches,  the  wild  refuge  of  white  renegades  more  sav 
age  than  the  Indians.  Where  he  came  he  took  with  him 
the  law.  It  was  his  way — the  way  he  had  taken  on 
the  Pecos  and  he  kept  it  now — to  stand  for  his  own 
rights,  to  fight  for  them  if  need  be,  until  he  estab- 


JOHN  SLAUGHTER'S  WAY  173 

lished  them;  thus  he  maintained  a  rule  of  action,  a 
rule  that  accorded  with  the  definition  of  the  old  English 
jurist,  "prescribing  what  is  right  and  prohibiting  what 
is  wrong." 

During  those  days  he  rode  on  far  journeys,  east 
ward  to  the  Rio  Grande,  northward  to  the  country  where 
the  land  breaks  toward  the  gorges  of  the  Colorado ;  and 
because  a  cattle-buyer  was  always  a  marked  man,  carry 
ing  large  sums  of  money  with  him,  there  were  many 
who  sought  his  life.  But  these  he  slew  or  drove  away. 

There  came  a  time  when  the  demand  for  stock  was 
so  heavy  that  he  looked  about  him  for  a  new  point  of 
supply  and  saw  Mexico.  Troops  of  bandits  rode  through 
the  southern  republic,  gathering  tribute  where  they 
willed.  He  loaded  down  pack-mules  with  dobie  dollars, 
led  his  cow-boys  down  across  the  boundary,  played  hide 
and  seek  with  bands  of  swarthy  murderers  in  the  moun 
tains,  and  battled  with  them  at  the  desert  water-holes. 

His  fame  spread  until  forty-five  guerrillas  came  rid 
ing  up  from  Sinaloa  to  gain  wealth  and  glory  by  murder 
ing  his  little  company.  They  found  John  Slaughter 
and  two  cow-boys  encamped  in  a  hamlet  down  beyond 
Moctezuma  with  the  nucleus  of  a  herd  which  they  were 
gathering.  A  sharp-eyed  scout  reported  two  pack- 
mules,  their  aparejos  bulging  with  dobie  dollars,  in  the 
train.  Immediately  thereafter  the  Mexicans  whom  the 
drover  had  employed  as  vaqueros  and  guides  deserted 
him ;  the  people  of  the  hamlet  closed  their  houses  against 
the  trio  of  gringos. 

The  bandits  watched  their  prospective  victims  going 
from  door  to  door,  seeking  four  walls  to  shelter  them 
against  attack,  and  laughed.  That  was  fine  spon  to 


174         WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

their  way  of  thinking ;  they  held  off,  just  as  a  cat  holds 
off  from  a  cornered  mouse ;  there  was  plenty  of  time  for 
the  killing,  no  use  of  hurrying. 

The  shadows  lengthened  between  the  little  adobe 
buildings;  dusk  came  on.  They  had  a  final  round  of 
drinks  in  a  mescal  groggery,  swung  into  their  saddles, 
and  went  jingling  down  the  street  to  enjoy  the  massacre. 

Bad  news  travels  fast.  The  tidings  sped  northward 
like  a  stray  horse  running  home.  One  day  a  rider  came 
to  the  ranch  on  the  San  Pedro  with  the  story :  how  John 
Slaughter  was  last  seen  alive  in  the  dismal  hamlet  at 
the  foot  of  the  Sierra  Madre,  abandoned  by  his  Mexicans, 
with  two  cow-boys  as  his  only  companions,  and  half  a 
hundred  well-armed  bandits  on  their  way  to  murder 
him.  A  grim  tale  for  the  ears  of  a  woman  who  was 
waiting  word  from  Mexico. 

A  woman  heard  it  out — John  Slaughter's  young 
bride.  He  had  brought  her  to  the  ranch-house  a  few 
months  before  and  in  these  first  days  of  her  happiness, 
a  happiness  made  the  more  poignant  by  those  deep  anxi 
eties  which  the  brave-souled  women  of  the  frontier 
had  to  bear,  she  listened  to  the  announcement  which 
abiding  dread  had  foreshadowed  during  many  a  lonely 
night.  When  the  rider  had  departed  she  ordered  a 
team  harnessed  to  the  buckboard  and  set  forth  for 
Mexico  within  the  hour. 

It  was  growing  late  when  she  passed  the  custom 
house;  they  had  no  confirmation  of  the  rumor  for  her 
there,  nor  contradiction  either;  the  best  they  could 
do  was  to  try  to  hearten  her  and  to  advise  her  to  wait. 
But  she  shook  her  head  at  the  advice  and  drove  on  south 
ward  in  the  darkness.  She  was  alone.  Blackness  hid 


JOHN  SLAUGHTER'S  WAY  175 

the  land  before  her ;  save  for  the  drumming'  of  the  hoofs 
and  the  scrape  of  the  wheels  in  the  rough  roadway 
there  was  no  sound.  The  wilderness  remained  silent, 
invisible,  offering  no  sign  of  what  tragedy  it  held  for 
her. 

The  night  passed;  gray  dawn  came;  the  sky  flamed 
above  the  ragged  crests  of  the  Sierra  Madre;  the  sun 
climbed  past  the  mountain  wall;  morning  grew  on 
toward  noon.  Far  to  the  south — so  tenuous  at  first  that 
it  barely  showed  against  the  clear  air,  now  thickening 
until  it  was  unmistakable  at  last — a  gray-brown  dust 
column  was  climbing  into  the  cloudless  sky.  It  came 
on  toward  her  as  she  urged  on  the  jaded  team,  the 
signal  of  an  advancing  herd. 

She  strained  her  eyes  and  saw  the  thin,  undulating 
line  beneath  it;  the  sun  gleamed  on  the  tossing  horns 
of  the  cattle,  their  lowing  sounded  faint  with  distance, 
growing  into  a  deep  pulsating  moan.  She  distinguished 
the  dots  of  horsemen  in  the  van;  and  now  one  rode 
on  swiftly  before  the  moving  mass.  She  recognized 
her  husband  from  afar. 

John  Slaughter  had  seized  his  opportunity  while  the 
bandits  were  drinking  to  their  own  good  luck  and  his 
death  in  the  mescal  shop.  He  and  John  Roberts,  his 
foreman,  had  taken  the  treasure-laden  mules  up  a  steep- 
walled  canon  five  miles  away.  When  the  murderers 
followed  the  hot  trail  they  found  themselves,  with  the 
coming  of  darkness,  in  the  narrowest  part  of  the  defile, 
so  neatly  ambushed  that  they  wheeled  their  horses  and 
rode  down  the  gorge  in  full  flight  before  the  fight  had 
fairly  begun. 

John  Slaughter's  wife  was  a  brave  woman.     She  rode 


176          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

beside  him  now  on  many  an  expedition;  into  the  sand 
hills  of  southwestern  New  Mexico,  and  down  across  the 
border  into  northern  Sonora.  She  saw  the  smoking 
remnants  of  wagon-trains  beside  the  road,  the  bodies 
of  Apaches'  victims  sprawled  among  the  ruins.  She 
looked  upon  the  unutterably  lonely  crosses  which  marked 
the  graves  of  travelers  where  Victorio's  turbaned  war 
riors  had  traveled  before  her  into  Mexico.  She  slept  be 
side  her  husband  where  the  desert  night  wind  whispered 
of  lurking  enemies;  and  watched  enshadowed  soap- 
weeds  beyond  the  ring  of  firelight  taking  on  the  sem 
blance  of  creeping  savages. 

He  beheld  her  drinking  deeply  from  the  cup  of  dread 
which  was  the  bitter  portion  of  the  strong-hearted  wo 
men  of  the  frontier.  And  when  he  journeyed  away 
without  her  he  had  for  company  the  constant  knowledge 
of  what  other  men  had  found  on  return  to  their  ravaged 
homes — what  might  be  awaiting  him  when  he  came 
back.  And  so  he  enlarged  the  scope  of  his  warfare, 
which  heretofore  had  been  confined  to  the  defensive; 
he  began  a  grim  campaign  to  keep  the  Apaches  out  of 
his  portion  of  the  San  Pedro  valley  for  all  time. 

He  led  his  own  war-parties  out  to  hunt  down  every 
roving  band  who  passed  through  the  country.  He  used 
their  own  science  of  reading  trails  to  track  them  to 
their  camping-places;  and  their  own  wiles  to  steal  upon 
them  while  they  rested.  He  improved  on  their  methods 
by  making  his  raids  during  the  darkness  when  their 
superstitions  made  them  afraid  to  go  abroad. 

One  midnight  he  was  deploying  a  company  of  Mexi 
cans  about  the  mesquite-thicket  which  sheltered  a  band 
of  warriors.  As  he  was  about  to  give  the  whispered 


JOHN  SLAUGHTER'S  WAY  177 

order  to  close  in,  the  unknown  dangers  which  awaited 
them  within  the  blackness  became  too  much  for  his 
followers.  They  balked,  then  began  to  fall  back.  He 
drew  his  forty-five. 

"First  man  that  shows  another  sign  of  hanging  back, 
I'll  kill  him,"  he  said  in  Spanish,  and  drove  them  be 
fore  him  to  the  charge. 

Gradually  the  Apaches  began  changing  their  war 
paths  into  Mexico,  and  as  they  swung  away  from  his 
ranges  John  Slaughter  increased  the  radius  of  his  raids 
until  he  and  his  cow-boys  rode  clear  over  the  summits 
of  the  passes  in  the  Sierra  Madre  which  lead  eastward 
into  Chihuahua. . 

With  nine  seasoned  fighters  at  his  heels  he  attacked 
a  war-party  in  the  heights  of  the  range  on  the  dawn  of 
a  summer  morning;  and  when  the  Indians  fled  before 
the  rifle-fire  of  the  attackers — scurrying  up  into  the 
naked  granite  pinnacles  like  frightened  quail — they 
left  a  baby  behind  them.  The  mother  had  dropped  it 
or  missed  it  in  her  panic,  and  the  little  thing  lay  whim 
pering  in  the  bear-grass. 

John  Slaughter  heard  it  and  stopped  shooting  long 
enough  to  pick  it  up.  With  the  bullets  of  her  people 
buzzing  around  his  ears  he  carried  the  brown  atom  down 
the  mountain-side  and  took  her  home  on  his  saddle  to 
his  wife. 

That  was  one  of  his  last  expeditions,  for  his  name  had 
become  a  byword  among  the  tribes,  and  Geronimo  him 
self  gave  instructions  to  his  people  to  leave  John 
Slaughter's  herds  inviolate,  to  avoid  his  range  in  travel 
ing.  With  this  degree  of  peace  ensured,  the  cow-man 
had  bought  an  old  Spanish  grant  not  far  from  where 


178          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

the  town  of  Douglas  stands  to-day  and  was  settling 
down  in  the  security  for  which  he  had  been  fighting, 
when  the  Tombstone  rush  brought  the  bad  men  from  all 
over  the  West  into  the  San  Pedro  and  Sulphur  Springs 
valleys;  and  with  them  came  the  outlaws  of  the  Pecos 
who  had  been  waiting  to  kill  him  during  these  three 
years. 

In  the  wild  cow-town  of  Charleston  where  the  lights 
turned  pale  under  the  hot  flush  of  every  dawn  the  des 
peradoes  from  the  Pecos  learned  how  John  Slaughter 
had  established  himself  before  them  in  this  new  land; 
how  his  cow-boys  patrolled  the  range  which  he  still  held 
on  the  San  Pedro  and  the  new  range  farther  to  the  east, 
guarding  his  herds  by  force  of  arms ;  and  how  the  silent 
Texan  had  already  declared  war  on  the  whole  incoming 
tribe  of  cattle-thieves  by  driving  Ike  and  Billy  Clanton 
from  his  old  ranch  at  revolver's  point,  bidding  them 
never  to  show  their  faces  there  again. 

They  heard  these  things  in  the  long  adobe  dance-halls 
while  rouge-bedizened  women  went  whirling  by  in  the 
arms  of  bold-eyed  partners  wearing  revolvers  on  their 
hips.  From  stage-robber,  stock-rustler,  horse-thief, 
and  the  cold-faced  two-gun  man  who  sold  his  deadly  tal 
ents  to  the  highest  bidder,  the  stories  came  to  them. 
And  then,  to  the  beat  of  the  piano  and  the  cornet's 
throbbing  blare,  the  bad  men  of  the  Pecos  told  of  the 
passing  of  the  Man  from  Bitter  Creek,  and  how  his 
slayer  came  back  down  the  river  recovering  his  stolen 
cattle  in  the  autumn. 

Now  another  champion  had  risen  among  the  bad 
men  of  the  Pecos  since  the  day  of  Gallagher,  a  burly, 
headstrong  expert  with  the  forty-five,  known  by  the 


JOHN  SLAUGHTER'S  WAY  179 

name  of  ''Curly  Bill."  Already  he  had  shot  his 
way  to  supremacy  over  the  other  ' '  He  Wolves ' '  who  had 
flocked  into  the  new  country;  he  had  slain  Tombstone's 
city  marshal  and  defied  the  Earps  when  they  came 
into  power  in  the  booming  mining  camp. 

When  it  came  to  a  question  of  single  combat  he  was 
acknowledged  champion  among  those  who  lived  by  what 
tell  they  could  exact  at  the  muzzles  of  their  deadly 
weapons;  when  it  came  to  warfare  he  was  the  logical 
leader.  And  so,  when  John  Slaughter's  name  was 
spoken  in  Charleston's  dance-halls,  the  eyes  of  his  fol 
lowers  were  turned  on  him.  He  saw  those  glances  and 
he  read  the  unspoken  question  which  they  conveyed ;  he 
met  it  with  a  laugh. 

"I  '11  go  and  get  that  fellow,"  he  proclaimed.  "I  '11 
kill  him  and  I  '11  fetch  his  herd  in  to  Charleston  my 
self." 

He  started  forth  to  make  good  his  boast,  and  twenty- 
five  hard-eyed  followers  went  riding  at  his  heels.  It 
was  a  wild  project  even  in  that  wild  era  and  Curly 
Bill  deemed  it  wise  to  do  his  massacring  down  in  Mexico, 
where  it  was  every  man  for  himself  and  coroner's  ju 
ries  were  not  known.  He  took  his  company  across  the 
boundary  and  lay  in  wait  for  John  Slaughter  on  a  mesa 
overlooking  a  little  valley,  down  which  the  herd  must 
pass. 

Mesquite-thickets  gave  the  outlaws  good  cover;  the 
slopes  below  them  were  bare  brush;  the  valley's  floor 
was  open  ground.  They  bided  here  and  watched  the 
country  to  the  south.  The  dust  column  showed  one 
cloudless  morning  and  they  saw  the  undulating  line  of 
cattle  reveal  itself  beneath  the  gray-brown  haze.  The 


180          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

herd  came  on  down  the  valley,  with  dust-stained  riders 
speeding  back  and  forth  along  its  flanks,  turning  back 
rebellious  cows,  urging  the  main  body  forward.  Curly 
Bill  spoke  the  word  of  command  and  the  twenty-five 
bad  men  rode  forth  from  their  hiding-place. 

The  sun  gleamed  on  their  rifle  barrels  as  they 
spurred  their  ponies  down  the  open  slope.  They  rode 
deep  in  their  saddles,  for  the  ground  was  broken  with 
many  little  gullies  and  the  horses  were  going  at  a 
headlong  pace.  They  drew  away  from  the  shelter  of 
the  mesquite  and  descended  toward  the  valley  bed. 
Some  one  heard  a  rifle  bullet  whining  over  his  head. 
The  man  glanced  around  as  the  sharp  report  followed 
the  leaden  slug;  and  now  every  face  was  turned  to 
the  rear.  Twelve  cow-boys  were  following  John 
Slaughter  keeping  their  ponies  to  a  dead  run  along 
the  heights  which  Curly  Bill  and  his  band  had  so 
blithely  forsaken. 

It  was  a  custom  as  old  as  Indian-fighting;  this  bring 
ing  on  of  the  main  force  over  the  high  ground  whence 
they  could  guard  against  surprise  and  hold  the  advan 
tage  over  luring  enemies.  By  its  result  the  ambuscaders 
were  ambushed,  riding  headlong  into  a  trap. 

It  was  a  simple  situation,  apparent  to  the  dullest 
mind.  Who  lingered  on  the  low  ground  would  never 
steal  cattle  again.  The  outlaws  wheeled  their  ponies 
to  a  man ;  and  now  as  they  raced  back  up  the  hill  they 
saw  the  cow-boys  coming  onward  at  a  pace  which  threat 
ened  to  cut  them  off  from  the  shelter  of  the  mesquite. 
Then  panic  seized  them  and  it  held  them  until  the  last 
cow-thief  had  spurred  his  sweating  horse  into  the  thick- 


JOHN  SLAUGHTER'S  WAY  181 

ets.  By  the  time  Curly  Bill  had  re-gathered  his  scat 
tered  forces  the  herd  was  nearly  out  of  sight. 

He  did  not  seek  renewal  of  the  attack.  He  let  it 
go  at  that.  And  when  he  came  to  Charleston  he  an 
nounced  that  so  far  as  he  was  concerned  the  incident 
was  closed ;  he  was  going  to  do  his  cattle-rustling  hence 
forth  over  San  Simon,  way  where  cow-men  did  not  main 
tain  rear -guards  and  scout  out  the  country  ahead  of 
them  for  enemies.  He  changed  his  base  of  operations 
to  Galeyville  within  a  month  and  came  to  Charleston 
for  pleasure  only. 

The  story  spread  and  every  man  who  deemed  himself 
as  bad  as  Curly  Bill  saw  his  opportunity  to  demonstrate 
his  qualifications  as  a  killer  by  succeeding  where  the 
leader  had  failed.  Doc  Holliday  tried  it  one  night  on 
the  Charleston  road.  Next  to  Wyatt  Earp  he  ranked  as 
the  highest  in  the  faction  that  was  ruling  Tombstone. 
Unquestionably  he  was  an  artist  with  deadly  weapons, 
and  the  trail  of  his  wanderings  through  the  West  was 
marked  by  wooden  headboards.  On  the  evening  in  ques 
tion — it  was  the  evening  after  the  bloody  and  unsuccess 
ful  attempt  to  rob  the  Benson  stage,  and  several  men 
were  riding  hard  toward  home  and  help  and  alibis — he 
was  spurring  his  sweating  horse  to  Tombstone  when  he 
got  sight  of  John  Slaughter's  double  rig  ahead  of  him. 

The  cattle-buyer  had  drawn  ten  thousand  dollars 
from  the  bank  that  afternoon  and  was  taking  the  specie 
home  with  him ;  the  fact  was  known  in  Charleston  where 
Doc  Holliday  had  stopped  within  the  last  hour.  The 
vehicle  was  rounding  a  long  turn ;  the  horseman  cut 
across  country  through  the  mesquite;  he  reached  the 


182          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

farther  end  of  the  curve  just  in  time  to  draw  alongside 
the  team. 

John  Slaughter's  wife  was  beside  him  on  the  driver's 
seat.  She  saw  the  rider  bursting  out  of  the  gloom,  and 
then  her  eyes  fell  on  the  forty-five  which  he  was  in  the 
very  act  of  ''throwing  down." 

''That  man  has  a  gun  in  his  hand/'  she  cried. 

Without  turning  his  head  her  husband  answered, 
11  So  have  I." 

She  glanced  down  at  his  cocked  revolver;  its  muzzle 
was  moving,  to  follow  the  enshadowed  figure  in  the 
saddle  less  than  ten  feet  away.  She  raised  her  eyes ;  the 
horseman  had  lowered  his  weapon  and  was  wheeling  his 
pony  off  into  the  night. 

''Knew  his  bronco  as  soon  as  I  saw  that  blazed  face 
show,"  John  Slaughter  said  in  explanation  of  his  quick 
draw. 

That  same  vigilance,  which  had  grown  to  be  second 
nature  with  him,  combined  with  an  almost  uncanny 
swiftness  in  putting  two  and  two  together,  which  latter 
had  come  to  him  during  the  years  when  guarding  his 
life  was  a  part  of  his  trade,  kept  the  cow-man  a  step 
ahead  of  his  enemies  on  every  occasion.  These  things 
were  instinctive  from  long  habit;  he  prepared  himself 
to  meet  a  situation  just  as  an  expert  gunman  draws  his 
forty-five — just  as  a  scientific  boxer  blocks  a  blow — 
without  wasting  an  instant  in  thinking. 

It  was  thus  with  him  when  Ed  Lyle  and  Cap  Stilwell 
waylaid  him  on  the  road  to  the  Empire  ranch  over  near 
Fort  Huachuca.  These  two,  who  had  endured  humili 
ation  under  the  muzzle  of  the  Texan's  pistol  on  the 
Pecos  trail,  brought  four  others  along  with  them  and 


JOHN  SLAUGHTER'S  WAY  183 

planned  to  do  the  murder  in  the  night.  Three  took 
their  stations  on  one  side  of  the  wagon  track  and  three 
on  the  other,  all  well  armed.  They  had  spotted  the  vic 
tim's  blackboard  several  miles  back. 

Now  when  it  came  on  to  the  spot  which  they  had  se 
lected,  the  two  trios  galloped  up  to  do  the  killing — and 
found  John  Slaughter  leveling  a  double-barreled  shot 
gun  while  his  wife  held  the  reins.  One  glimpse  of  that 
weapon  at  the  cattle-buyer's  shoulder  was  enough;  they 
did  not  wait  for  him  to  pull  the  trigger  but  fled. 

John  Slaughter  was  wearying  of  this  sort  of  thing. 
Lyle  and  Stilwell  were  men  of  parts ;  good  men  of  whom 
to  make  examples.  He  sought  the  former  out  in  Char 
leston.  They  met  in  front  of  a  saloon  on  the  main 
street.  John  Slaughter  drew  and,  as  he  threw  down — 

"I  rve  got  no  gun,"  Lyle  cried. 

"If  you  were  armed,"  the  cow-man  said,  "I  'd  kill 
you  now.  But  if  I  ever  see  you  in  this  country  again, 
I  '11  kill  you  anyhow." 

Lyle  left  and  Cap  Stilwell,  receiving  his  sentence  of 
banishment  in  the  same  manner,  departed  within  a  week. 
From  that  time  the  bad  men  let  John  Slaughter  alone ; 
he  was  too  big  for  them.  He  took  his  family  to  his  new 
San  Bernardino  ranch  and  it  was  beginning  to  seem  as 
if  the  days  of  constant  warfare  were  over.  He  was  set 
tling  down  to  enjoy  peace  in  his  home,  when  a  call  for 
help  made  him  forsake  the  security  which  had  been  so 
hard  to  earn. 

That  security  was  unknown  elsewhere  in  Cochise 
County.  The  strong  men  who  had  seized  the  reins  in 
Tombstone,  wielding  their  power  for  their  own  selfish 
ends,  were  gone;  they  had  ridden  away  with  warrants 


184          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

out  against  them.  The  outlaw  leaders  were  dead:  John 
Kingo,  Curly  Bill,  the  Clantons,  and  others  who  had 
swaggered  where  they  willed,  had  met  violent  ends. 

With  their  passing  the  courts  were  trying  to  adminis 
ter  the  statutes,  but  the  courts  were  impotent.  The 
statutes  were  mere  printed  words.  For  the  rank  and 
file  of  the  bad  men  were  raiding  and  murdering  under 
the  guidance  of  new  leaders  who  furnished  them  with 
food  and  ammunition,  notified  them  of  the  movements 
of  the  officers,  procured  perjured  witnesses  to  take  the 
stand  in  their  behalf,  and  bribed  jurymen. 

Money  and  influence  were  taking  the  place  of  deadly 
weapons  to  uphold  a  dynasty  whose  members  reigned 
unseen  and  under  cover,  whose  henchmen  looted  ex 
press-cars,  stole  cattle,  and  murdered  men  on  the  high 
ways,  until  things  had  come  to  such  a  pass  that  Presi 
dent  Arthur  had  isued  a  proclamation  threatening  mar 
tial  law  in  Southeastern  Arizona. 

And  now  the  people  of  Tombstone,  grown  sick  with 
blood  and  much  violence,  called  to  John  Slaughter  to 
take  the  office  of  sheriff  and  bring  the  law  to  them.  It 
meant  the  abandonment  of  his  herds  just  as  he  was  get 
ting  them  well  started,  the  putting  aside  of  plans  which 
he  had  cherished  through  the  years.  But  he  answered 
the  call  and  forsook  the  San  Bernardino  ranch  for  the 
dingy  little  room  beside  the  court-house  entrance.  Be 
fore  he  had  got  fairly  acquainted  with  the  new  quarters 
war  was  on. 

Cochise  County  was  being  used  as  a  haven  by  ban 
dits  throughout  the  Southwest.  Four  train-robbers  fled 
hither  from  Mexico,  where  they  had  looted  an  express- 
car  and  killed  the  messenger,  soon  after  John  Slaugh- 


JOHN  SLAUGHTER'S  WAY  185 

ter's  term  began.  He  took  his  chief  deputy,  Bert  Al- 
vord,  and  two  others  and  followed  their  trail  high  into 
the  Whetsone  Mountains.  In  the  night-time  the  posse 
crawled  through  the  brush  and  rocks  to  the  place  where 
they  had  located  the  camp  of  the  fugitives. 

A  man  must  leave  many  things  to  chance  when  it 
comes  to  choosing  his  position  in  the  dark,  and  it  so 
happened  that  when  dawn  came  the  sheriff  and  his  dep 
uty  found  themselves  right  under  the  nook  where  the 
bandits  were  ensconced;  the  other  members  of  their 
party  had  become  separated  from  them. 

They  had  the  enemy  nicely  cornered,  with  a  cliff  to 
cut  off  escape  to  the  rear,  but  they  were  themselves  in 
the  open;  two  men  against  four  and  the  four  en 
trenched  behind  outcroppings  of  the  living  rock. 

A  small  space  of  time  was  jammed  with  many  large 
incidents  immediately  after  this  discovery.  Men  at 
taining  supreme  exaltation  died  in  the  instant  of  that 
attainment;  pulses  that  leaped  with  the  joy  that  comes 
when  sight  lines  with  bead,  bead  with  living  target  and 
the  trigger-finger  begins  to  move,  ceased  their  beating 
more  abruptly  than  a  machine  stops  when  the  power  is 
turned  off. 

The  leaden  slugs  snarled  as  thick  as  angry  wasps 
when  the  nest  has  been  disturbed;  the  crackling  of  the 
rifles  was  as  a  long  roll;  little  geysers  of  dust  spouted 
among  the  rocks;  the  smoke  of  black  powder  arose  in  a 
thin  blue  haze. 

A  bullet  clipped  away  a  little  portion  from  John 
Slaughter's  ear.  He  called  to  Alvord: 

"Bert;  you  're  shooting  too  high;  pull  down;  I  see 
you  raising  dust  behind  'em  every  time." 


186          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

Alvord,  fighting  his  first  battle,  clenched  his  teeth  and 
lowered  his  front  sight.  John  Slaughter  had  prefaced 
his  advice  by  killing  one  of  the  bandits;  he  supple 
mented  it  by  putting  a  bullet  through  a  head  that  bobbed 
above  the  rocks.  And  when  the  other  two  members  of 
the  posse  came  to  take  part  in  the  fight,  there  was  only 
one  train-robber  living.  They  found  him  breathing  his 
last  where  he  had  crept  away  among  the  cliffs. 

But  killing  desperadoes  would  not  eradicate  the  reign 
of  lawlessness  unless  a  man  slew  the  entire  pack;  and 
John  Slaughter  had  no  intention  of  instituting  a  St. 
Bartholomew's  eve  in  Cochise  County.  Thus  far  he 
had  managed  to  get  along  with  less  bloodshed  than  many 
a  man  who  had  not  accomplished  nearly  as  much  as  he. 
So  now  he  went  on  with  his  task  as  he  had  gone  about 
his  business  always  and  proceeded  to  smoke  out  the  men 
who  were  responsible  for  this  state  of  affairs. 

It  was  not  so  hard  to  learn  their  identity  as  it  was  to 
get  the  proof  of  what  they  were  doing.  That  was  slow 
work.  But  he  had  hired  Bert  Alvord  as  his  deputy  with 
just  this  end  in  view.  For  Alvord  was  hail-fellow-well- 
met  in  every  bar-room  of  the  county;  owner  of  a  multi 
tude  of  friends,  many  of  whom  were  shady  characters. 
In  later  years  he  gained  his  own  dark  fame  as  an  out 
law,  but  that  was  long  after  John  Slaughter  left  the 
office  of  sheriff. 

At  present  Alvord  was  working  honestly  and  hard, 
getting  such  information  as  he  could  concerning  who 
was  who  among  the  desperadoes,  gathering  data  as  to 
their  movements.  The  facts  began  to  accumulate:  a 
word  dropped  in  a  gambling-hall,  a  name  spoken  be 
fore  a  noisy  bar,  a  whispered  confidence  from  a  prisoner 


JOHN  SLAUGHTER'S  WAY  187 

who  felt  his  companions  had  not  done  all  they  might  in 
his  behalf. 

Gradually  the  evidence  took  the  shape  of  a  long  finger 
pointing  toward  Juan  Soto,  who  was  living  in  the  lit 
tle  town  of  Contention,  as  the  leader  who  was  handling 
matters  in  the  San  Pedro  valley.  About  this  time  John 
Slaughter  began  riding  out  of  Tombstone  under  cover 
of  the  night.  The  days  went  by;  the  sheriff  came  back 
to  Tombstone  morning  after  morning,  red-eyed  with 
weariness,  put  up  his  pony,  and  went  about  his  business 
saying  nothing  as  usual. 

One  day  news  came  to  the  county  seat  that  two 
cattle-buyers  had  been  robbed  and  murdered  down  near 
the  Mexican  line.  John  Slaughter  saddled  up  and  rode 
over  to  Charleston  that  morning,  and  when  Juan  Soto 
came  into  town  he  met  the  sheriff  who  addressed  him 
over  the  barrel  of  a  leveled  forty-five. 

"I'll  just  take  you  along  with  me  to-day,"  John 
Slaughter  said. 

It  was  a  good  tight  case.  {Tombstone  was  startled 
by  the  news  that  Juan  Soto  had  been  a  member  of  a 
bandit  band  in  California.  The  sheriff  was  able  to 
give  some  first-hand  testimony  concerning  the  defend 
ant's  nocturnal  habits.  But  the  community's  excite 
ment  slumped  to  sullen  anger  when  the  jury  brought 
in  its  verdict  and  Juan  Soto  smiled  as  he  departed 
from  the  court-house  a  free  man. 

Things  had  reached  a  pass  where  a  vigilance  com 
mittee  appeared  to  be  the  appropriate  climax.  But 
that  was  not  John  Slaughter's  way;  if  any  one  were 
going  to  take  the  power  of  the  high  justice  he  proposed 
to  be  the  man.  He  rode  over  to  Contention  and  camped 


188          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

in  front  of  Juan  Soto's  house  late  in  the  evening. 
The  night  passed,  and  when  the  bandit  leader  came 
riding  home  from  Charleston  with  the  dawn,  he  saw 
the  sheriff  standing  before  his  door. 

Both  men  reached  for  their  revolvers  at  the  same 
moment,  but  John  Slaughter's  hand  was  quicker.  It 
was  his  chance  to  kill;  according  to  the  ethics  of  the 
gun-play  he  had  that  right.  But  he  chose  a  different 
course. 

"Leave  the  country,"  he  said.  "If  you  're  here 
after  ten  days,  I  '11  kill  you  on  sight." 

Soon  after  Juan  Soto  departed  on  his  exile,  the 
town  of  Wilcox  over  in  Sulphur  Springs  valley  was 
treated  to  a  sensation  in  the  banishment  of  Van  Wyck 
Coster.  Every  one  thought  Coster  had  enough  money 
and  influence  to  keep  him  immune  from  legal  pro 
ceedings,  but  John  Slaughter  wasted  none  of  the  coun 
ty's  money  in  arrest  or  trial. 

"I  've  known  what  you  were  doing  for  a  long  time 
now,"  he  announced,  holding  his  revolver  leveled  on 
his  auditor  while  he  spoke.  There  was  some  debate, 
but  the  sheriff  clinched  his  argument  by  going  into  de 
tails,  and  when  he  had  finished  outlining  the  prosecu 
tion's  case  he  delivered  his  ultimatum:  "Get  out  or 
I  '11  kill  you." 

Coster  joined  Juan  Soto  in  exile.  And  then  it  be 
came  a  simple  matter  of  hunting  down  outlaws  and 
bringing  them  in  for  trial.  The  arm  of  the  law  was 
limbered  and  justice  functioned  in  the  Tombstone  court 
house  as  well  as  it  does  in  any  city  of  the  land;  far 
better  than  is  the  case  in  some  more  pretentious  com 
munities.  There  was  of  course  plenty  of  work  left. 


JOHN  SLAUGHTER'S  WAY  189 

Tombstone  is  full  of  stories  of  John  Slaughter's  ex 
ploits. 

A  desperado,  seeking  to  kill  him,  threw  down  on  him 
as  he  was  entering  a  saloon.  Caught  unawares  for  once, 
the  sheriff  flung  up  his  hand  and,  as  he  grasped  the 
pistol,  thrust  his  thumb  under  the  descending  ham 
mer.  Meantime  he  drew  his  own  weapon  and  placed  the 
man  under  arrest.  Two  train-robbers  sought  to  lure 
him  to  Wilcox  by  a  decoy  letter  stating  that  his  nephew 
had  been  killed.  The  instinct  which  had  saved  him 
from  other  ambuscades  made  him  investigate ;  and  when 
he  learned  that  his  nephew  was  living  he  summoned  a 
friend  who  made  the  journey  with  him.  The  spectacle 
of  these  two  old-timers  emerging  from  opposite  doors 
of  the  day  coach,  each  with  a  double-barreled  shotgun 
under  his  arm,  drove  the  conspirators  from  the  sta 
tion  platform.  Years  afterward  one  of  them  confessed 
the  details  of  the  plot. 

John  Slaughter  served  two  terms  as  sheriff,  and 
when  he  retired  from  office  Cochise  County  was  as 
peaceable  as  any  county  in  the  whole  Southwest.  The 
old-timers  who  witnessed  the  passing  of  events  during 
his  regime  invariably  speak  of  him  when  they  are  tell 
ing  of  great  gunmen.  Yet,  from  the  time  when  he 
started  up  the  Pecos  with  that  herd  in  the  spring  of 
1876  until  the  day  when  he  went  to  his  San  Bernardino 
ranch  to  take  up  life  as  a  peaceful  cattleman,  he  slew 
fewer  men  than  some  whose  names  are  absolutely  un 
known.  What  he  did  he  managed  to  accomplish  in 
most  instances  without  pulling  a  trigger.  That  was  his 
way. 


VIII 
COCHISE 

DARKNESS  had  settled  down  upon  the  wide  mes- 
quite  flat,  smoothing  off  all  irregularities,  hiding 
outlines  until  the  tallest  thickets  were  but  deeper  shad 
ows  merging  into  the  lesser  shades  of  the  open  places. 
Only  one  object  showed,  a  Sibley  tent  glowing  from  the 
light  within. 

Under  the  flaming  yellow  stars  it  stood  out  lumin 
ous,  marking  the  exact  center  of  an  enormous  circle; 
a  circle  roofed  by  the  radiantly  flecked  heavens, 
bounded  by  mountains  which  rose  against  the  sky-line, 
abrupt  as  a  wall,  black  as  ink.  In  the  different  seg 
ments  of  this  far-flung  ring  the  peaks  of  the  Chiraca- 
huas,  the  Grahams,  the  Dragoons,  and  the  Galiuros  be 
trayed  their  ranges  by  varying  outlines. 

But  to  the  eye  they  all  formed  portions  of  one  huge 
circumference,  whose  center  was  a  glowing  point,  the 
Sibley  tent. 

On  the  translucent  walls  of  canvas  there  was  a  weird 
design  of  black  shadows,  a  design  which  was  constantly 
shifting  and  taking  on  new  shapes.  And  as  the  shad 
ows  moved,  sometimes  with  grotesque  effect  and  swiftly, 
sometimes  slowly,  voices  filtered  through  the  gleaming 
cloth  to  mingle  with  the  whispering  of  the  night  wind 
in  the  bear-grass,  the  dull  stamping  of  tethered  horses, 

190 


COCHISE  191 

the  intermittent  jingling  of  bitt-chains  and  the  steady 
soft  footballs  of  two  sentries. 

The  voices  changed  as  often  as  the  shadows  on  the 
tent-wall;  now  it  was  the  abrupt,  clipping  speech  of  a 
white  man  and  now  the  deep,  inflectionless  bass  of  an 
Indian.  But  most  often  it  was  the  droning  monotone 
of  the  post  interpreter,  uttering  his  translations  in 
English  or  in  the  tongue  of  the  Apache. 

Of  what  was  taking  place  within  those  luminous 
walls  of  canvas,  official  records  still  exist;  and  of  what 
followed  there  are  whole  volumes  of  further  records  in 
Washington.  Dry  reading  in  themselves,  they  hold 
the  meat  of  a  remarkable  story,  a  story  whose  colorful 
narration  has  been  given  by  its  own  main  characters 
and  thus  has  come  down  among  the  true  chronicles  of 
the  old-timers. 

On  that  evening  in  1859  two  groups  of  men  faced 
one  another,  and  the  lantern  which  hung  on  the  center- 
pole  of  the  Sibley  tent  shone  down  on  their  faces,  re 
vealing  the  growing  passion  in  their  eyes.  ,0ne  of  the 
groups  was  composed  of  soldiers,  wearing  the  blue  uni 
forms,  the  queer  straight-visored  caps,  and  the  huge 
wide-topped  boots  which  our  cavalry  used  during  those 
times;  a  guard  of  sunburnt  troopers  under  a  hard-bit 
ten  nom-com. ;  and  standing  a  pace  or  so  ahead  of  them, 
a  young  second  lieutenant  fresh  from  West  Point: 
Lieutenant  Bascom,  a  stranger  in  a  strange,  harsh  land, 
just  a  little  puzzled  over  the  complications  which  he 
saw  arising  here,  but  dead  sure  of  himself  and  intoler 
ant  of  the  men  with  whom  he  was  treating.  That  in 
tolerance  showed  in  his  stare  as  he  regarded  them. 

There  were  half  a  dozen  of  the  Apaches,  chiefs  every 


192          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

one  of  them,  a  ragged  group  clad  in  a  mixture  of  their 
native  garb  and  cast-off  clothes  of  the  white  man; 
frowzy  hair  hanging  to  their  shoulders  and  bound 
round  at  the  brows  by  soiled  thin  turbans.  But  they 
stood  erect  and  there  was  a  dignity  in  the  way  they 
held  their  heads  back,  a  dignity  in  their  immobility  of 
feature  and  in  their  slow,  grave  speech.  It  was  the 
dignity  of  men  who  knew  that  they  were  leaders  of 
their  people;  who  felt  themselves  on  entire  equality 
with  the  leader  of  the  white  man's  warriors;  who  felt 
the  gravity  of  this  occasion  where  they  had  been  in 
vited  into  conference  with  this  blue-clad  representative 
of  a  mighty  government.  Their  head  man  was  Cochise. 

Like  Lieutenant  Bascom,  he  stood  a  pace  ahead  of 
his  followers,  a  lean  Apache,  with  a  thinner  face  than 
most  of  his  tribesmen  and  a  remarkably  high  forehead. 
And  as  he  looked  into  the  eyes  of  the  young  man  in  blue 
who  had  just  come  from  the  far  cities  of  the  east  coast 
there  began  to  come  into  his  own  eyes  the  shadow  of 
suspicion.  The  talk  went  on;  the  interpreter  droned 
out  one  answer  after  another  to  his  speeches,  and  that 
shadow  in  the  eyes  of  Cochise  deepened. 

In  itself  the  matter  at  issue  was  a  small  one.  A 
settler  had  lost  a  cow  and  he  had  accused  the  Apaches 
of  stealing  the  animal.  Young  Lieutenant  Bascom 
had  summoned  the  chiefs  to  conference  and  they  had 
come — they  said — to  help  him  find  the  culprit.  After 
the  manner  of  the  Indian,  of  whose  troubles  the  passing 
of  time  is  the  very  least,  they  talked  slowly,  listened  to 
the  interpreter's  rendition  of  the  lieutenant's  answers, 
and  then  talked  more. 

They  did  not  know  the  man  who  had  stolen  the  cow; 


COCHISE  193 

that  was  the  sum  and  substance  of  their  speeches.  And 
Lieutenant  Bascom,  fretting  with  the  passage  of  the 
hours,  looked  on  the  ragged  group  in  their  dirty  non 
descript  garments  and  chafed  with  fresh  intolerance. 

Cochise  read  that  intolerance  in  the  eyes  of  the 
smooth-cheeked  officer  and,  being  an  Apache,  managed 
to  conceal  the  suspicion  in  his  own  eyes.  He  did  not 
want  trouble  with  the  white  man.  He  had  never  yet 
had  trouble  with  soldier  or  settler.  Ever  since  he  had 
been  a  chief  among  the  Chiracahua  Apaches  he  had 
held  down  the  turbulent  spirits  in  his  portion  of  the 
tribe;  he  had  out-intrigued  savage  politicians  and  had 
smoothed  over  more  than  one  difficulty  like  this.  As 
a  matter  of  fact  he  was  assimilating  some  of  the  white 
man's  ways;  he  was  getting  into  business;  working  a 
crew  of  his  people  at  wood-cutting,  selling  cord-wood 
to  the  stage  company  at  the  Stein's  Pass  station.  He 
was  doing  well,  saving  money,  and  saw  ahead  of  him 
the  time  when  he  would  own  many  cattle,  like  some  of 
the  settlers. 

All  of  this  was  very  comfortable  and  to  his  taste,  and 
because  he  liked  it  he  held  a  firm  stand  against  the  sua 
sions  of  warring  chiefs  from  his  and  other  tribes.  He 
even  came  to  cool  terms  with  his  relative  Mangus  Colo 
rado,  the  greatest  leader  the  Apaches  had  ever  known. 
But  while  he  was  keeping  to  his  position  he  had  to 
listen  to  many  an  argument  and  many  a  tale  of  the 
white  man's  treachery,  and  a  man  cannot  listen  often 
without  sometimes  finding  himself  inclined  to  believe. 

Settler  and  soldier,  so  said  Mangus  Colorado  and 
other  men  of  parts  among  his  people,  regarded  their 
promises  to  the  Indians  as  nothing;  they  were  forever 


194          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

trying  to  entice  the  Apaches  into  conference  and  then 
taking  advantage  of  them — sometimes  by  massacre. 
While  he  argued  slowly  against  the  impatient  utter 
ances  of  Lieutenant  Bascom,  reading  the  growing  in 
tolerance  in  the  other's  eyes,  Cochise  remembered  some 
of  the  stories  which  he  had  frowned  down  when  his 
people  told  them. 

That  was  the  state  of  affairs  when  Lieutenant  Bas 
com,  with  the  cocksureness  of  the  young  and  the  intol 
erance  of  the  Easterner  for  frowzy  Indians,  made  a 
decision.  To  him  it  was  evident  that  these  tattered 
savages  were  lying,  they  were  a  treacherous  lot  at 
the  best,  and  always  thieves.  So,  now  that  he  was  get 
ting  sick  of  the  whole  drawn-out  business,  he  turned 
from  the  interpreter  to  his  sergeant, 

" Arrest  'em,"  he  said. 

Cochise  heard  him  and  slipped  to  the  rear  of  the 
tent  as  the  troopers  stepped  forward.  The  other  chiefs, 
who  could  understand  no  English,  did  not  need  an 
interpreter  to  tell  them  the  meaning  of  this  movement. 
At  once  the  quiet  of  the  Arizona  night  was  shattered 
by  the  thud  of  blows  and  savage  outcries.  The  crowded 
space  within  the  tent  was  filled  with  struggling  men. 

And  while  that  fight  went  on,  Cochise,  aflame  with 
hatred,  outraged  by  this  violation  of  the  sacred  custom 
of  conference,  believing  now  every  word  that  had  been 
spoken  to  him  by  Mangus  Colorado  and  the  other  war- 
chiefs,  whipped  out  his  knife.  The  sound  of  the  blade 
as  it  rent  the  canvas  was  drowned  by  the  other  noises, 
and  when  Lieutenant  Bascom  and  his  breathless  troop 
ers  surveyed  their  bound  captives  Cochise  was  in  full 
flight  across  the  darkened  plain. 


COCHISB  195 

Now  word  was  sent  by  courier  to  the  agency,  and 
government  runners  went  forth  that  night  to  all  parts 
of  the  reservation,  but  they  found  no  Indians  to  receive 
their  messages.  The  Chiracahua  Apaches  were  already 
riding  toward  their  mountains  where  Mangus  Colorado 
and  the  renegade  membes  of  their  tribe  were  biding  on 
the  heights,  like  eagles  resting  on  the  rocky  peaks  before 
they  take  their  next  flight. 

Like  roosting  eagles  the  warriors  of  Mangus  Colorado 
scanned  the  wide  plains  beneath  the  mountains.  Their 
eyes  went  to  the  ragged  summits  of  the  ranges  beyond. 
Now  as  the  day  was  creeping  across  the  long,  flat  reaches 
of  the  Sulphur  Springs  valley,  tipping  the  scarred  crests 
of  the  Dragoons  with  light  off  to  the  west,  touching  the 
distant  northern  pinnacles  of  the  Grahams  with  throb 
bing  radiance,  one  of  these  lookouts  beheld  a  thread  of 
smoke  unraveling  against  the  bright  morning  sky. 

Under  the  newly-risen  sun  Cochise  and  his  followers 
were  traveling  hard  away  off  there  to  the  northward. 
The  turbaned  warriors  came  on  first,  half -naked,  armed 
some  of  them  with  lances,  some  with  bows  and  poisoned 
arrows,  and  a  goodly  number  bearing  rifles.  Their 
lank  brown  legs  moved  ceaselessly  in  rhythm  with  the 
trotting  of  the  little  ponies;  their  moccasined  heels 
thudded  against  the  flan-ks  of  the  animals. 

In  the  rear  of  the  column  the  squaws  rode  with  the 
children  and  the  scanty  baggage.  As  they  traveled 
thus,  an  outrider  departed  from  the  column  to  leave  his 
horse  upon  an  arid  slope  and  climb  afoot  among  the 
rocks  above  until  he  stood  outlined  against  the  clear 
hot  sky,  kindling  a  wisp  of  flame.  Now  he  bent  over 
the  fire,  casting  bits  of  powdered  resin  upon  the  blaze, 


196          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

holding  a  square  of  tattered  blanket  over  it  after  the 
first  puff  of  black  smoke  had  risen,  feeding  it  then  with  a 
scattering  of  green  leaves  which  in  their  turn  gave  forth 
a  cloud  of  white  fumes. 

And  so  the  smoke  thread  unwound  its  length,  showing 
itself  in  black  and  white;  spelling  forth,  by  the  same 
system  of  dot  and  dash  which  the  white  man  employs 
in  his  telegraph,  the  tidings  of  what  had  taken  place 
back  there  in  the  Sibley  tent. 

From  his  nook  in  the  Chiracahuas  the  watching 
warrior  read  its  message.  And  long  before  the  first 
faint  haze  of  mounting  dust  betrayed  the  approach  of 
the  fugitives,  Mangus  Colorado  knew  that  his  nephew 
and  his  nephew's  people  had  quit  the  reservation  and 
the  rations  of  meat  and  flour  to  make  their  living  hence 
forth,  as  their  savage  forebears  had  made  theirs  as  far 
back  as  the  memory  of  the  oldest  traditions  went — by 
marauding.  So  he  gathered  all  his  forces  and  wel 
comed  Cochise  into  a  council,  where  they  planned  their 
first  series  of  raids  against  the  white  men. 

In  this  manner  Cochise  reverted  to  the  customs  of 
his  ancestors ;  customs  which  had  come  gradually  to  the 
Apaches  when  they  wandered  down  from  Athabasca, 
passing  southward  through  regions  held  by  hostile  tribes 
snatching  their  sustenance  from  these  enemies,  fleeing 
before  superior  forces  of  warriors,  until  they  reached 
the  flaming  deserts  down  by  the  Mexican  border,  past- 
masters  of  the  arts  of  ambush  and  raid  and  retreat,  own 
ing  no  longer  any  love  of  home  or  knowledge  of  tepee 
building;  nomads  who  made  their  lodges  by  spreading 
skins  or  blankets  over  the  tops  of  bushes  which  they 
had  tied  together ;  to  whom  the  long  march  had  become 


COCHISE  197 

an  ingrained  habit  and  all  the  arts  of  bloody  ambush 
an  instinctive  pleasure. 

Now  he  devoted  all  his  mind  and  bent  his  talents  to 
these  wiles  of  Apache  warfare;  he  directed  his  young 
men  in  making  a  living  for  the  rest  of  the  tribe  by  theft 
and  murder. 

His  uncle,  Mangus  Colorado,  was  the  most  skilful 
leader  the  Apaches  had  ever  known,  a  marvelously  tall 
savage  with  an  enormous  head.  Cochise  learned  from 
him  and  in  time  surpassed  him  as  a  general.  For 
nearly  a  decade  and  a  half  he  made  a  plunder  ground 
of  southeastern  Arizona  and  southwestern  New  Mexico, 
extending  his  forays  away  down  across  the  line  into 
Sonora  and  Chihuahua  until  a  remarkable  man  among 
his  white  enemies  came  to  him,  and  by  a  daring  bit  of 
frontier  diplomacy,  put  an  end  to  the  bloodiest  out 
break  in  the  history  of  the  Southwest. 

But  in  the  beginning  there  was  neither  diplomat  nor 
general  among  the  white  men.  The  days  before  the 
Civil  War  witnessed  a  withdrawal  of  the  troops  from 
Arizona,  and  the  Apaches  had  things  very  much  their 
own  way.  From  their  home  in  the  Chiracahua  Moun 
tains  they  rode  westward  across  the  wide  reaches  of  the 
Sulphur  Springs  valley  to  the  ridges  of  the  Catalinas 
away  beyond  the  San  Pedro,  then  turned  southward, 
making  their  way  toward  Mexico  by  the  Whetstone 
and  the  Huachuca  ranges. 

Now,  as  they  trekked  along  the  heights,  they  paused 
at  times  to  send  bands  of  warriors  down  into  the  flat 
lands  which  lie  along  the  course  of  the  Santa  Cruz. 
Here  were  ranches  and  a  few  small  settlements.  It  was 
the  custom  of  the  raiders  to  steal  upon  these  places, 


198          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

always  in  force  superior  to  that  of  their  enemies,  cam 
ouflaging  themselves  by  bits  of  brush  and  handfuls  of 
earth  which  they  stuck  among  the  folds  of  their  turbans 
and  spread  over  their  bare  backs  until  one  looking  at 
them  from  a  distance  of  twenty-five  yards  would  never 
suspect  the  presence  of  lurking  warriors. 

In  this  manner  they  lay  along  the  roadside  biding  the 
wagon-trains  and  stages,  or  crept  up  on  ranch-houses, 
or  wormed  their  way  toward  sleeping  prospectors  at  the 
hour  of  dawn.  And  when  they  felt  sure  that  the  issue 
was  safely  in  their  hands  they  opened  fire. 

During  the  Civil  War  times  they  put  the  Butterfield 
stage  line  out  of  business  and  were  an  important  factor 
in  determining  the  northern  route  for  the  carrying  of 
the  United  States  mails  to  California;  they  wiped  out 
the  ranches  of  the  valleys  until  cattle-raising  and  agricul 
ture  ceased  entirely;  they  raided  the  pueblo  of  Tubac 
until  its  people  finally  fled  for  safety  to  Tucson  and 
then  they  burned  the  deserted  buildings.  They  made  a 
howling  waste  out  of  southeastern  Arizona. 

Travel  was  suspended ;  there  was  no  ranching  and 
nearly  every  mine  in  this  portion  of  the  territory  was 
abandoned.  Of  northern  Sonora  they  made  a  source 
of  supply  for  their  horses  and  drove  whole  herds  out  of 
Mexico,  using  the  surplus  animals  for  food,  keeping  the 
rest  for  mounts  until  these  knuckled  under  from  hard 
treatment. 

During  the  years  that  followed  the  Civil  War  those 
fat  days  came  to  an  end.  Fresh  troops  were  sent  out 
from  Washington.  Mangus  Colorado  was  captured  by 
a  detachment  of  cavalry  and,  according  to  the  story  of 
one  present,  was  killed  in  his  blankets  by  the  troopers 


COCHISE  199 

who  guarded  him.  White  settlers,  stung  to  reprisals 
by  the  barbarity  of  successive  massacres,  hunted  down 
several  bands  of  the  Apaches  at  their  rancherias  and 
wiped  them  out  in  night  attacks,  men,  women,  and 
children.  Cochise  found  himself  faced  with  a  new  set 
of  conditions  and  changed  his  tactics  to  meet  them. 

It  was  the  habit  of  the  Apaches  to  rest  between  the 
long  forced  marches  of  their  raids,  choosing  always  a 
spot  high  in  the  mountains  where  the  mescal  plant  grew. 
Here  they  would  gather  the  roots  of  the  thorny 
vegetable,  bury  them  in  the  earth,  kindle  roaring  fires 
over  them,  and  bake  them.  Thus  they  got  the  sugar 
which  their  wasted  bodies  needed ;  and  during  the  days 
at  these  camps  they  gained  the  rest  which  their  aching 
bones  craved. 

But  the  white  man's  cavalry,  guided  by  scouts  re 
cruited  from  the  Touto  Basin  Apaches  and  from  settlers 
who  knew  the  country,  began  tracking  the  renegades  to 
their  aerial  refuges,  and  sometimes  massacred  whole 
bands  of  them.  Failing  to  steal  upon  them,  the  cavalry 
always  managed  to  get  them  on  the  run  once  more,  and 
that  meant  scant  rations  when  full  bellies  were  long 
overdue. 

In  this  manner  the  soldiers  and  the  settlers  were  mak 
ing  the  Chiracahuas  too  hot  for  Cochise  and  his  people. 

Then  the  war-chief  led  his  tribe  across  the  Sulphur 
Springs  valley  to  the  northern  end  of  the  Dragoon 
Mountains  where  the  peaks  rise  straight  from  the 
mesquite  flat  lands,  two  thousand  feet  of  sheer  walls 
whose  summits  command  a  view  for  many  miles;  whose 
pinnacles  and  overhanging  rocks  give  endless  oppor 
tunity  for  hiding  and  ambush.  In  this  sanctuary  they 


200          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

found  rest  between  raids  during  the  early  seventies ;  and 
the  place  is  known  to  this  day  as  Cochise's  Stronghold. 

Here  one  time  a  force  of  several  hundred  soldiers 
made  camp  in  the  lowlands,  and  strung  a  series  of  strong 
outposts  through  Middle  Pass,  cutting  off  the  northern 
part  of  the  range  from  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  holding 
it  inside  a  ring  of  armed  men.  It  was  such  a  siege  as 
the  warriors  of  the  Middle  Ages  used  to  wage,  starving 
their  walled-in  enemies  to  surrender.  For  weeks  the 
soldiers  bided  and  sometimes  got  glimpses  of  the  tur- 
baned  heads  of  Apache  warriors  who  were  gazing  down 
on  them  from  the  rocks  above. 

Then,  one  dark  night,  Cochise  took  his  entire  tribe, 
numbering  somewhere  between  two  and  three  hundred 
men,  women,  and  children,  down  the  niches  among  the 
cliffs.  Carrying  their  arms  and  their  scanty  baggage, 
the  Apaches  wormed  their  way  from  the  crest  to  the 
plain  two  thousand  feet  below  and  crawled  through  the 
line  of  the  besiegers.  So  adroitly  was  the  thing  maneu 
vered  that  no  one  cut  their  trail,  and  two  days  passed 
before  the  escape  was  discovered.  By  that  time  the 
whole  band  were  raiding  down  along  the  headwaters  of 
the  San  Pedro,  getting  new  horses  from  the  herds  of 
ranchers  on  the  border. 

In  the  old  days  this  northern  end  of  the  Dragoon 
Mountains,  which  towers  above  the  flat  lands  of  the 
Sulphur  Springs  valley  on  the  one  side  and  the  rolling 
plains  of  the  San  Pedro  on  the  other,  had  been  known 
among  the  Apaches  as  the  abode  of  the  dead.  Here, 
they  said,  the  departed  spirits  of  their  ancestors 
whispered  among  the  granite  caves  and  pinnacles  every 
evening  with  the  coming  of  the  night  wind. 


COCHISE  201 

But  from  now  on  they  forgot  the  tribal  legends  and 
looked  upon  the  place  as  their  inviolable  refuge. 

Time  after  time  the  blue-clad  troopers  chased  them 
as  far  as  the  base  of  the  cliffs,  but  never  pressed  them 
farther.  For  Cochise  had  developed  into  a  consummate 
strategist  and,  for  the  first  time  in  their  history,  the 
Apaches  learned  the  art  of  making  a  stand  against 
superior  forces. 

To  this  day  the  rolling  hills  under  those  pinkish 
granite  precipices  show  traces  of  the  camps  which  the 
troopers  occupied  during  successive  sieges,  only  to 
abandon  them  on  learning  that  their  turbaned  enemies 
had  stolen  away  in  some  other  quarter  to  resume  their 
raiding  all  along  the  border. 

In  some  of  the  canons  which  lead  up  toward  the 
ragged  crests  of  naked  rock  one  can  still  pick  up  old 
'  brass  cartridge-shells,  the  relics  of  grim  battles  where  the 
soldiers  always  found  themselves  at  a  disadvantage, 
targets  for  the  frowzy,  naked  savages  who  slipped  and 
squirmed  among  the  granite  masses  above  them  like 
rattlesnakes. 

Far  to  the  southward  the  Sierra  Madre  reared  its 
lofty  crests  toward  the  flaring  sky;  and  there  Cochise 
established  another  sanctuary  where  his  people  could 
rest  and  hunt  when  the  chase  became  too  hot  in  Arizona. 
His  breech-clouted  scouts  discovered  some  dry  placer 
diggings  here,  and  he  bade  the  squaws  mine  the  dust 
which  he  exchanged  with  crooked-souled  white  traders 
for  ammunition. 

And  now,  having  mastered  the  art  of  flight  as  he  had 
mastered  the  art  of  raiding,  the  war-chief  of  the  Chira- 
cahua  Apaches  waged  his  vendetta  against  the  white 


202          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

men  more  remorselessly  than  any  of  his  forefathers  had 
done  in  their  time. 

But  few  men  are  absolutely  consistent  and  Cochise 
had  some  idiosyncracies,  which  it  is  just  as  well  to  note 
in  passing,  for  they  give  an  inking  of  a  side  of  his  char 
acter  that  was  instrumental  in  bringing  an  end  to  the 
whole  bloody  business. 

For  one  thing  he  could  not  enjoy  torturing  his  pris 
oners.  He  tried  that  once  on  a  Mexican  down  Agua 
Prieta  way.  After  the  custom  of  his  nation  he  pegged 
out  the  luckless  prisoner  near  an  ant-hill,  with  his 
mouth  propped  open  by  a  wooden  gag  and  a  trail  of 
honey  leading  into  it. 

But  when  he  settled  down  that  night  to  enjoy  the 
torments  of  the  man,  he  found  that  pleasure  would  not 
come  to  him;  and  during  the  long  hours  that  followed, 
the  groans  of  the  slowly  dying  Mexican  became  a  punish 
ment  to  his  savage  captor,  a  punishment  which  endured 
for  years  afterward,  for  in  his  sleep  Cochise  sometimes 
heard  those  moanings  when  he  was  an  old  man,  and 
hearing  them  sweated  in  agony  of  mind. 

Another  of  his  peculiarities  was  a  love  of  the  truth. 
He  was  no  hand  at  lying  like  the  ordinary  Indian.  In 
an  era  when  the  white  men  were  careless  with  their 
compacts,  an  era  when  Washington  set  the  fashion  in 
breaking  treaties  with  the  hostile  Indians,  he  came  out 
with  the  reputation  of  always  keeping  his  word. 

"If  you  can  not  tell  the  truth,"  he  said,  "keep  silent 
or  avoid  the  subject." 

That  was  the  way  he  put  it  to  Captain  Thomas 
Jonathan  Jeffords,  to  whom  he  also  confessed  the  weak 
ness  which  had  overcome  him  in  the  case  of  the  tortured 


COCHISE  203 

Mexican.  And  the  knowledge  of  this  side  of  Cochise 's 
character  helped  Captain  Jeffords  to  pave  the  way  for 
the  wind-up  of  the  war-chief's  maraudings.  That 
knowledge  came  after  a  long  strange  intimacy  which  be 
gan  in  a  remarkable  manner. 

This  Captain  Thomas  Jonathan  Jeffords  owned  a 
wagon  outfit  and  not  only  contracted  for  government 
freighting  in  those  times  when  teaming  was  a  perilous 
venture,  but  rode  as  an  express  messenger  for  various 
military  posts  along  the  border.  During  the  days  when 
Cochise  was  using  the  northern  end  of  the  Dragoon 
Mountains  as  his  stronghold,  the  days  before  these  two 
men  became  acquainted,  the  lean  brown  warriors  made 
several  attacks  on  Jeffords's  wagon-trains  and  on  more 
than  one  occasion  forced  the  old-timer  himself  to  do 
some  extremely  hard  riding. 

Finally  when  he  had  lost  fourteen  employees  and 
property  amounting  to  thousands  of  dollars  in  am 
buscades  and  raids,  Jeffords  decided  that  it  was  high 
time  to  put  an  end  to  this  sort  of  thing  as  far  as  he  was 
concerned.  He  had  tried  reprisals  on  his  own  account 
but  although  he  and  his  leather-skinned  followers  had 
managed  to  kill  off  numerous  Apaches,  there  were  more 
warriors  in  the  tribe  than  he  could  ever  hope  to 
massacre. 

He  had  worked  with  the  soldiers  as  a  scout  but  had 
found  the  cavalry  hampered  by  too  many  conflicting 
orders  from  Washington,  and  in  some  cases  too  in 
efficiently  officered  in  high  places,  to  be  very  formidable. 
Cochise  was  too  much  for  them  to  handle  and  that  was 
all  there  was  about  it.  Now  he  made  up  his  mind  to 
try  a  new  scheme. 


204          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

Captain  Jeffords  had  mixed  a  great  deal  with  Apaches 
of  various  tribes,  until  he  knew  their  customs  as  well  as 
they  did  themselves.  He  could  speak  their  tongue 
and  he  knew  the  sign  language  which  was  the  lingua 
Franca  of  the  western  tribes.  He  could  read  smoke 
signals;  he  had  made  friends  among  those  of  the  rene 
gades  who  sometimes  took  a  long  chance  and  drifted 
down  to  the  government  posts  in  company  with  peace 
ful  Indians.  Gradually  he  got  such  information  as  he 
could,  and  as  he  got  it  he  stored  it  away  in  his  mind  until 
he  felt  he  was  as  well  equipped  with  knowledge  as  he 
could  hope. 

Then  he  set  forth  one  day  to  pay  a  visit  to  Cochise  in 
person.  It  was  a  risky  venture  but  the  old-timers  never 
balked  at  taking  long  chances;  else  they  would  never 
have  come  west  of  the  Rio  Grande.  Jeffords  induced 
an  Apache  who  had  been  with  Cochise  to  accompany 
him  part  way  on  the  journey;  and  before  the  Indian 
back-tracked  for  the  military  post,  he  had  him  send  up 
a  smoke  signal  announcing  the  visit  and  stating  that  its 
nature  was  peaceable. 

When  the  last  shreds  of  smoke  vanished  in  the  clear 
sky  the  native  departed  and  Jeffords  resumed  his 
journey  toward  the  Dragoons.  No  answering  sign  had 
come  from  those  scarred  granite  peaks;  and  as  he  rode 
on  across  the  blazing  plain  they  stood  forth  against  the 
cloudless  sky,  frowning,  inscrutable.  For  all  that  the 
eye  could  see  they  might  have  been  deserted,  without 
life  among  them  since  the  beginning  of  time;  or  they 
might  be  at  this  moment  sheltering  hundreds  of  biding 
enemies.  He  had  to  wait  until  he  got  among  those  rocks 
before  he  knew  what  they  held  in  store  for  him. 


COCHISE  205 

He  rode  to  the  edge  of  the  plain  and  from  the  low 
lands  up  the  first  slopes  of  talus  at  the  mouth  of  a  long, 
steep-walled  canon.  He  pressed  his  horse  on  up  the 
narrow  gorge.  On  either  side  the  cliffs  loomed  above 
him ;  in  places  they  were  so  close  together  that  he  could 
have  tossed  a  pebble  from  one  to  the  other.  There  was 
no  sign  of  life ;  no  sound,  no  movement. 

But  this  tall  lean  rider  knew  that  somewhere  among 
those  granite  pinnacles  which  stood  out  against  the  sky 
line  before  him  and  on  either  side,  scores  of  venomous 
black  eyes  were  watching  him.  He  knew  that  for  every 
pair  of  eyes  there  was  a  rifle ;  and  that  many  a  crooked 
brown  finger  was  fairly  itching  to  press  the  trigger. 

Thus  he  rode  his  sweating  pony  up  and  up  where  the 
gorge  wound  toward  the  summit,  up  and  up  until  he 
reached  the  nests  of  enormous  granite  boulders  which 
hang  seemingly  poised  between  the  heavens  and  the 
flat  plain  beneath.  And  finally  he  saw  before  him  the 
lodges  made  of  bended  bushes  with  skins  and  blankets 
spread  over  their  curved  sides.  He  reined  in  his  ho-rse, 
dismounted,  and  walked  into  the  camp  of  the  renegades. 

Cochise  was  sitting  in  his  lodge,  which  was  but  a  bare 
shelter  from  the  sun's  rays — a  number  of  bushes  bound 
together  at  their  tops  formed  the  ribs  for  a  haphazard 
sort  of  tent  made  of  outspread  skins, — and  whether  he 
was  awaiting  this  visit  no  man  knows.  For  the  war- 
chief  showed  no  sign  of  surprise  or  of  welcome  when 
Captain  Jeffords  entered  the  place.  But  when  the  tall 
white  man  had  seated  himself  upon  the  skins  which 
covered  the  dry  earth  and  announced  his  purpose, 
Cochise  betrayed  astonishment. 

"I    have   come   here,"    Jeffords    said    with   the    de- 


206          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

liberation  which  one  must  use  when  he  is  talking  with 
an  Indian,  "to  see  you,  to  know  you  better,  and  to  talk 
over  certain  matters  with  you.  I  will  stay  here  two  days 
or  maybe  three;  and  while  I  remain — to  show  my  good 
faith — one  of  your  squaws  may  keep  my  weapons." 
With  which  he  laid  aside  his  rifle  and  revolver. 

After  a  silence  whose  length  would  have  been  dis 
concerting  to  any  other  than  an  old-timer  owning  a 
knowledge  of  the  Indian  ways,  Cochise  called  a  squaw, 
who  picked  up  the  firearms  at  his  bidding  and  took 
them  away  with  her.  Then  these  two  men  of  parts 
settled  down  to  talk  business. 

It  took  them  two  days  and  two  nights,  for  Jeffords 
was  careful  not  to  crowd  matters  in  the  slightest,  hanging 
to  the  savage  custom  of  long  silences  and  few  words  at  a 
time  between  them.  As  the  hours  went  on  he  sat  there 
patiently  listening  to  the  war-chief  recounting  at  great 
length  his  experiences  with  the  white  men,  reciting  the 
stories  of  bad  faith  and  broken  compacts;  and  when 
these  recitals  were  finished  he  continued  to  sit  in  silence 
for  long  intervals,  before  he  resumed  his  own  argu 
ments. 

Thus  the  talk  went  on  in  the  little  brush  shelter 
during  the  hot  days  and  the  cool  evenings ;  and  what  it 
all  came  to  was  this: 

Jeffords  said  that  this  war  between  Cochise  and  the 
soldiers  was  not  his  war.  It  was,  he  maintained,  no 
business  of  his  excepting  when  the  officers  who  carried 
the  authority  of  the  great  father  in  Washington,  bade 
him  to  do  their  bidding  and  act  as  a  guide  or  scout. 
Otherwise,  why  should  he  take  up  his  good  time  and  risk 


COCHISE  207 

his  life  in  fighting  a  people  against  whom  he  held  no 
personal  grudge? 

And  why  should  that  people  bother  their  heads  and 
risk  their  lives  in  fighting  him?  He  followed  that 
question  by  reminding  Cochise  of  the  reprisals  which  he 
had  launched  against  the  Chiracahua  Apaches.  They 
had  killed  fourteen  of  his  men  and  stolen  much  of  his 
property;  but  he  and  his  men  had  killed  several  times 
fourteen  of  Cochise 's  warriors  and  had  wrought  devas 
tation  in  proportion.  Did  that  pay  the  Apaches? 

Well,  then,  why  keep  on  with  it?  He  knew  good 
things  of  Cochise  and  had  respect  for  him.  Cochise 
knew  who  he  was  and  the  sort  of  man  he  was.  No 
need  for  them  to  go  on  injuring  each  other  and  each 
other's  people.  They  could  call  it  a  draw  and  quit 
right  now. 

If  the  white  soldiers  demanded  Jefford's  services,  all 
well  and  good;  he  would  go  and  serve  them  as  scout  or 
interpreter  or  guide,  and  do  what  fighting  one  must  do 
when  he  is  on  the  war-path.  And  on  such  occasions,  if 
the  warriors  of  Cochise  could  kill  him  or  capture  him, 
all  right;  it  was  their  privilege.  But  no  more  of  this 
attacking  each  other  out  of  season.  If  Cochise  would  let 
his  men  and  property  alone,  he  would  no  longer  make 
any  raids  on  Cochise 's  people. 

That  was  the  gist  of  it  and  it  took  a  long  time  to  say ; 
a  long  time  during  which  Cochise  told  Jeffords  many 
things  and  Jeffords  spoke  with  Cochise  of  many  subjects 
outside  the  direct  line  of  discussion.  For  that  was  the 
Indian  manner ;  they  must  feel  each  other  out  and 
satisfy  themselves  each  as  to  the  other's  personality. 


208          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

In  the  end  they  shook  hands  on  their  bargain,  and 
Captain  Thomas  Jonathan  Jeffords  got  back  his  weapons 
from  the  squaw,  saddled  up  his  pony,  and  rode  forth 
from  the  camp  of  the  Apache  war-chief,  the  party  of 
the  first  part  to  a  compact  such  as  never  had  been  heard 
of  up  to  that  time  in  the  history  of  Indian  warfare. 

That  compact  stood.  And  there  were  times  when  its 
observance  was  a  delicate  matter;  times  when  Captain 
Jeffords  had  to  draw  fine  lines  between  his  duty  as  a 
government  scout  and  his  obligations  to  Cochise.  But 
he  managed  to  perform  those  duties  and  to  keep  the 
faith;  and  although  he  went  forth  with  the  cavalry 
troopers  on  many  an  occasion,  serving  them  faithfully 
and  well,  he  never  fell  out  with  the  war-chief  of  the 
Chiracahuas. 

In  fact  their  friendship  grew  as  the  years  went  by 
and  they  came  to  regard  each  other  as  brothers. 
During  such  visits  as  he  paid  to  the  stronghold  in  lulls 
of  the  border  warfare,  Jeffords  got  to  know  much  of 
Cochise 's  history,  of  his  grievances,  and  of  his  point  of 
view. 

During  these  same  years  there  came  a  change  in  the 
command,  and  General  George  Crook,  who  is  looked 
upon  by  the  old-timers  as  perhaps  the  greatest  of  our 
Indian-fighters,  led  the  cavalry  against  the  Apaches. 
Crook's  understanding  of  the  Indian  was  perfect;  and 
not  only  was  he  able  to  beat  the  natives  at  their  own 
game  of  ambuscade  but  he  thoroughly  sympathized  with 
their  cause.  He  knew  how  Washington  and  incom 
petent  officers  had  blundered  and  lied  to  them. 

It  was  therefore  with  the  utmost  willingness  that  he 
combined  his  campaign  of  savage  fighting  with  another 


COCHISE  209 

and  quieter  campaign  of  diplomacy  which  was  being 
waged  by  General  0.  0.  Howard. 

The  latter  had  been  sent  out  by  President  Grant  to 
get  the  Chiracahua  Apaches  back  on  the  reservation. 
And  one  day  he  made  up  his  mind  to  open  negotiations 
with  the  war-chief  in  person. 

He  asked  his  scouts  for  a  man  who  could  find  where 
Cochise  was  hiding  at  the  time  and  conduct  him  to  the 
place,  and  they  told  him  that  there  was  only  one  man 
in  the  territory  of  Arizona  who  stood  a  chance  of  doing 
this — Captain  Jeffords. 

General  Howard  sent  for  Jeffords  and  the  two  con 
ferred  in  the  presence  of  a  number  of  cavalry  officers. 
And  when  the  general  had  announced  his  purpose  a 
dispute  arose;  the  officers  advised  him  to  take  along  a 
strong  escort  of  troops  if  he  intended  making  this  call. 
Jeffords  declared  flatly  that  such  an  escort  would  need 
all  the  cavalry  along  the  border.  No  troops  or  else  an 
army,  was  his  way  of  putting  it;  and  if  there  were  an 
army  he  did  not  purpose  accompanying  the  expedition. 
On  the  other  hand  he  would  willingly  take  General 
Howard  alone.  They  compromised  by  sending  along  a 
single  aide,  a  captain. 

Then  these  three  men  journeyed  to  the  northern  end 
of  the  Dragoon  Mountains;  and  as  they  crossed  the 
wide  plains  toward  the  somber  range,  they  halted  two 
or  three  times  while  Captain  Jeffords  built  a  little  fire. 
The  general  and  his  aide  watched  the  old-timer  standing 
by  the  wisp  of  flame,  sprinkling  upon  it  now  one  sort 
of  fuel  and  now  another,  occasionally  smothering  the 
rising  fumes  with  his  saddle  blanket.  And  as  they  rode 
onward  they  saw  the  smoke  of  Apache  signal-fires  rising 


210          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

from  the  ragged  summits  ahead  of  them.  They  saw 
these  things,  and  it  is  a  fact  that  they  thought  but  little 
of  them. 

So  they  marveled  when  Captain  Jeffords  chose  his 
route  into  the  mountains  without  hesitation;  and  their 
wonder  grew  when  he  pointed  to  a  group  of  enormous 
boulders  which  topped  the  ridge  ahead  of  them, 
saying — 

"We  will  find  Cochise's  people  camped  there  to-day." 

They  rode  on  upward  and  came  into  the  camp  of  the 
Apaches.  Here  and  there  a  ragged  squaw  peered  out 
of  a  dirty  lodge  at  them ;  they  saw  a  group  of  children 
scattering  like  frightened  quail.  There  were  no  warri 
ors,  only  one  or  two  old  men. 

"Where  is  Cochise?"  General  Howard  asked. 

"He  will  be  here  within  an  hour,"  Jeffords  an 
swered,  "and  when  he  comes  you  will  know  him  be 
cause  you  will  see  riding  ahead  of  him  the  ugliest- 
looking  Apache  in  Arizona  carrying  a  lance." 

And  because  Jeffords  had  exchanged  no  word  as  yet 
with  the  Indians,  the  two  white  men  marveled  again. 

The  old-timer  led  them  to  the  chief's  lodge,  where 
they  sat  down  and  waited. 

Within  the  hour  a  group  of  Apaches  came  riding 
up  the  nearest  gorge,  and  at  their  head  General  Howard 
saw  one  whose  sinister  face  conformed  to  the  descrip 
tion  which  Jeffords  had  given  him.  The  warrior  was 
carrying  a  lance.  And  behind  him  rode  the  war-chief. 
Cochise  dismounted  and  entered  his  lodge.  After  the 
Mexican  fashion  he  kissed  Jeffords  on  both  cheeks  em 
bracing  him  warmly.  Then — 

"What  is  it  these  men  want?"  he  asked. 


COCHISE  211 

Jeffords  introduced  General  Howard  and  the  aide, 
and  stated  the  former's  motive  in  making  this  visit. 
Cochise  sat  silent  for  some  moments.  At  length, 
pointing  to  General  Howard — 

— "Will  he  keep  his  word  if  we  exchange  promises?" 
he  demanded. 

"I  have  advised  him  not  to  promise  too  much,  as  is 
the  habit  of  many  white  men/'  Jeffords  answered, 
"and  I  believe  he  is  honest." 

The  old  war-chief  fell  silent  again.  Finally  he 
turned  to  General  Howard. 

"Some  of  my  young  men,"  he  said  slowly,  "are 
away  now.  They  are  making  their  living.  They  may 
come  back  at  any  time.  And  when  they  come  back 
there  may  be  trouble.  It  would  be  better  if  you  were 
not  here  then." 

And  General  Howard  knew  enough  about  the  Apaches 
and  their  habits  to  be  sure  in  what  manner  those 
young  men  were  making  their  living;  what  sort  of 
trouble  would  probably  follow  their  arrival  in  the 
camp.  It  would  be  an  awkward  situation  if  he  were 
to  be  in  this  place  during  a  battle  between  the  savages 
and  his  fellow-soldiers.  But  he  was  not  a  young 
man  and  the  prospects  of  a  long  ride  back  to  the  near 
est  military  post  were  not  alluring.  He  said  as  much. 

"Four  of  my  young  men  will  take  you  to  a  good 
place,"  Cochise  told  him,  "and  after  the  third  day 
they  will  bring  you  back." 

On  the  advice  of  Jeffords  this  course  of  action  was 
agreed  to;  and  four  Apaches  took  General  Howard 
down  into  the  valley  as  far  as  the  point  where  the 
Sulphur  Springs  ranch  buildings  now  stand. 


212          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

Jeffords  and  the  aide  bided  here  on  the  heights 
with  the  Indians.  And  on  the  second  day,  true  to 
Cochise's  prophecy,  a  band  of  renegades  came  riding 
hard  up  the  gorge.  The  spot  where  the  Indians 
were  encamped  was  a  saddle  at  the  summit,  some 
hundreds  of  feet  lower  than  the  adjoining  ridges. 
Now  as  the  fugitive  warriors  threw  themselves  from 
their  lathered  ponies,  announcing  that  two  troops  of 
cavalry  were  close  behind  them,  the  aide  of  General 
Howard  witnessed  one  of  those  spectacles  which  are 
easier  to  tell  than  to  believe. 

With  the  announcement  of  this  emergency,  the  camp 
moved.  In  the  same  time  that  it  takes  to  say  the  fore 
going  sentence,  it  moved — men,  women,  children,  and 
every  bit  of  impedimenta.  It  was  like  one  of  those 
magic  transformations  of  which  we  used  to  read  in 
fairy-tales  when  we  were  children. 

One  moment  the  Apaches  were  squatting  among 
their  lodges;  and  in  the  next  moment  people  and  goods 
and  wickiups  were  gone;  the  place  was  bare. 

Every  warrior  and  squaw  and  child  seized  what 
objects  were  nearest  at  hand,  overlooking  none,  and 
scampered  off  with  them.  Within  a  few  minutes  of 
the  arrival  of  the  fugitives,  the  entire  band  was  scat 
tered  among  the  boulders  and  pinnacles  on  the  higher 
portion  of  the  ridge;  Cochise  was  disposing  his  war 
riors  to  the  best  advantage  to  repel  the  attack. 

But  the  cavalry  made  no  advance  beyond  the  canon 
mouth,  and  there  was  no  fight.  When  General  How 
ard  returned  at  the  end  of  the  next  day  he  saw  the 
manner  in  which  the  war-chief  had  deployed  his  men 
and  was  struck  with  admiration.  No  general,  he 


COCHISB  213 

said  in  telling  of  the  incident  afterward,  no  matter 
how  highly  schooled  in  the  arts  of  modern  warfare, 
could  have  disposed  of  his  forces  to  better  advantage 
than  this  savage  had  done. 

Then  General  Howard,  his  aide,  and  Captain  Jeffords 
were  given  one  of  those  primitive  lodges  and  settled 
down  here  among  the  lofty  heights  of  Cochise 's  strong 
hold,  isolated  from  all  white  men,  surrounded  by  the 
most  bloodthirsty  savages  in  America,  rubbing  elbows 
with  naked  warriors  who  had  spent  the  years  of  their 
manhood  perfecting  themselves  in  the  fine  arts  of  am 
bush  and  murder. 

Cochise  saw  to  it  that  they  were  well  supplied  with 
robes  and  blankets;  by  his  orders  they  were  feasted 
as  became  ambassadors;  and  General  Howard  ate 
with  a  relish  one  evening  a  stew  which  he  afterward 
learned  was  made  from  the  meat  of  a  fat  half -grown 
colt. 

The  conference  went  on  at  a  leisurely  rate;  but  at 
that  it  was  conducted  much  more  swiftly  than  most 
discussions  in  which  Indians  have  taken  part,  for 
since  the  party  had  come  to  these  heights  they  had 
sent  back  no  word  of  how  they  were  faring,  and  they 
dared  not  drag  out  the  business  to  too  great  a  length 
lest  an  expedition  come  after  them.  Such  a  develop 
ment  would  effectually  stop  the  negotiations  and,  in  all 
probability,  forever  prevent  their  renewal. 

General  Howard  told  Cochise  his  purpose  in  coming 
to  Arizona,  and  dwelt  with  emphasis  on  the  fact  that 
President  Grant  had  sent  him.  The  name  of  this 
famous  warrior  of  the  white  men  had  weight  with  the 
leader  of  the  Chiracahuas.  If  the  man  who  led  the 


214          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

armies  of  the  great  father  to  victory  was  behind  this 
movement,  he  must  at  least  respect  the  overtures. 
Howard  went  on  to  say  that  all  the  President  wanted 
was  peace  with  the  Indians;  to  get  them  back  on  the 
reservation  and  to  treat  them  fairly. 

Cochise  replied  with  a  long  statement  of  his  own 
grievances  beginning  with  the  incident  wherein  Lieu 
tenant  Bascom  was  a  main  figure;  he  told  of  other 
cases  wherein  the  white  man  had  not  shown  up  well. 
Many  promises  had  been  made  to  the  Apaches  but  none 
had  been  kept.  Still  he  was  willing  to  go  on  with  this 
thing;  President  Grant  was  a  mighty  warrior,  and 
Captain  Jeffords  had  vouched  for  his  envoy's  honesty. 

Thus  they  sat  within  the  rude  shelter  of  boughs 
and  skins,  smoking  and  talking  while  the  naked  braves 
passed  outside  eying  them  through  the  doorway  with 
sharp  sidelong  glances,  and  lean  withered  squaws 
cackled  all  day  long  among  the  vermin-ridden  lodges 
about  them. 

Then  Cochise  announced  that  he  and  his  people  would 
go  back  to  live  upon  a  reservation  and  to  eat  the  white 
man's  rations — on  certain  conditions.  The  reserva 
tion  must  be  in  their  own  country;  he  named  a  portion 
of  the  Sulphur  Springs  valley  and  the  adjoining 
Chiracahuas.  And  the  agent  must  be  Captain  Jeffords. 

There  was  justice  in  these  conditions.  The  tribe 
had  always  roved  over  the  country  which  Cochise 
named.  As  for  the  agent,  it  was  a  notorious  fact  that 
about  nine-tenths  of  the  Indian  troubles  originated 
through  dishonesty  of  officials;  either  they  were  thieves 
or  their  friends  were,  which  amounted  to  the  same 
thing.  And  Jeffords  was  honest. 


COCHISE  215 

When  General  Howard  had  heard  out  the  war- 
chief,  he  at  once  accepted  the  stipulations.  President 
Grant  had  given  him  carte  blanche  in  this  matter; 
he  was  sure  that  he  could  keep  his  promises.  But 
Captain  Jeffords  interposed  an  obstacle. 

The  last  thing  that  he  wanted  was  to  be  an  Indian 
agent.  The  government  owed  him  about  twenty  thou 
sand  dollars  and  if  he  took  the  office  it  would  prevent 
his  collecting  the  claims  which  were  then  under  ad 
judication  in  Washington.  Besides  he  well  knew  the 
political  forces  which  were  always  working  on  an  Indian 
agent,  the  strings  which  were  being  pulled  in  Wash 
ington,  the  various  grafts,  big  and  petty,  to  which 
one  must  shut  his  eyes  if  he  wanted  to  remain  in 
charge  of  a  reservation.  !He  stated  his  position. 

Cochise  remained  firm.  No  agent  other  than 
Jeffords.  That  was  his  ultimatum.  He  would  rather 
go  on  fighting  until  his  people  were  extinct  than  to 
take  them  back  and  have  them  robbed.  General  How 
ard  turned  in  appeal  to  the  old-timer.  And  Captain 
Jeffords  then  capitulated — under  conditions. 

He  would  give  up  the  hope  of  collecting  the  money 
which  the  government  owed  him  and  he  would  take 
charge  of  the  new  reservation.  But  if  he  did  these 
things  he  must  be  in  complete  control.  His  word 
must  be  law  and  there  must  be  no  outside  interference. 
If  he  gave  the  order,  no  white  man — not  even  the 
commander  of  the  United  States  army — could  come 
within  the  boundaries  of  the  district  set  apart  for  the 
Indians.  Beyond  his  judgment  there  could  be  no 
appeal.  He  did  not  purpose  to  have  matters  taken 
to  Washington  over  his  head. 


216          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

And,  to  make  a  long  story  short,  General  Howard 
not  only  consented  to  all  of  this,  but  he  saw  to  it 
that  President  Grant  confirmed  his  promises.  He 
made  a  special  trip  to  Washington  and  placed  the 
matter  before  the  nation's  chief  executive,  who  issued 
the  necessary  orders.  And  so  late  in  1872  Cochise  and 
his  people  came  back  to  the  reservation. 

That  was  not  all,  either.  They  lived  there,  during  the 
lifetime  of  Cochise,  in  peace  and  quiet.  There  were 
thefts  and  there  were  cases  of  whisky-peddling  with 
their  inevitable  accompaniments  in  the  way  of  murder. 
There  were  times  when  the  young  men  got  restless ;  when 
passing  Apaches  from  the  White  Mountains  tried  to  in 
duce  the  tribe  to  rise  and  leave  the  reservation  with 
them,  when  medicine-men  from  these  other  clans 
preached  bloody  war. 

But  Cochise  and  Captain  Thomas  Jonathan  Jeffords 
attended  to  all  of  these  things  as  they  came  up.  They 
ferreted  out  the  criminals;  they  hunted  down  the 
whisky-peddlers;  they  drove  the  recalcitrant  spirits 
from  other  tribes  away  and  quelled  the  dissatisfac 
tion  which  they  had  stirred  up. 

And  because  there  was  no  appeal  beyond  their  judg 
ment  ;  because  no  hungry  politician  could  bring  it  about 
that  his  friends  got  the  chance  to  swindle  the  Apaches 
or  to  rob  them  of  their  rations — as  was  being  done  with 
other  Indians  all  over  the  West  at  the  time — these  two 
old  men  were  able  to  enforce  their  edicts  and  to  keep  at 
peace  the  most  warlike  savages  in  the  whole  Southwest. 
They  kept  the  faith  with  the  government,  those  two; 
and  they  kept  the  faith  with  each  other ;  and  the  friend- 


COCHISE  217 

ship  which  had  begun  that  day  when  Jeffords  rode  up 
into  Cochise 's  stronghold,  grew  closer  and  closer. 

That  friendship  never  wavered  until  the  day  of  Co- 
chise's  death.  And  when  he  knew  that  the  end  was 
coming  he  called  for  Jeffords,  who  was  brought  to  his 
bedside.  It  was  about  two  hours  before  noon. 

"To-morrow  at  this  time  in  the  morning,"  Cochise 
said,  "I  will  die.  I  want  to  say  good-by  to  you." 

They  talked  for  some  time  over  things  that  had  hap 
pened  in  days  gone  by.  And  finally  Cochise  asked  the 
old-timer  whether  he  believed  in  a  hereafter.  Jeffords, 
like  many  another  man,  could  only  hope  that  there 
might  be  such  a  thing. 

"Well,"  Cochise  told  him  finally,  "I  believe  that 
after  I  am  gone  I  will  see  you  again,  my  friend." 

And  those  were  their  last  words  together.  The  next 
morning,  at  the  hour  which  he  had  named,  Cochise 
breathed  his  last. 


ONE  AGAINST  MANY 

MAYBE  you  will  get  an  insight  into  certain  traits 
of  the  old-timers  and  so  will  find  it  easier  to  be 
lieve  the  facts  set  forth  in  this  chronicle,  if  I  begin  with 
the  tale  of  "Big  Foot"  Wallace. 

Away  back  in  the  days  before  the  Mexican  War  this 
Big  Foot  Wallace,  lusty  then  and  in  his  prime,  was 
taking  part  in  a  bushwhacking  expedition  into  North 
ern  Chilhuahua;  and  his  little  company  was  captured 
by  the  soldiers  of  the  southern  republic.  No  one  was 
losing  any  sleep  in  those  parts  over  the  laws  of  nations, 
and  the  officer  commanding  the  victorious  enemy  was 
in  a  hurry  to  be  moving  on.  Wherefore,  like  many 
another  handful  of  Americans,  the  prisoners  soon  found 
themselves  surrounding  a  jar  within  whose  hidden 
depths  were  white  and  black  beans,  in  number  corre 
sponding  to  their  own. 

The  idea  was  that  each  man  must  draw  his  bean,  and 
he  who  got  a  white  one  lived,  while  he  who  picked  a 
black  kernel  was  lined  up  with  his  luckless  friends  be 
fore  the  nearest  wall  and  shot  within  an  hour.  Thus 
the  Mexican  commander  intended  to  reduce  by  one-half 
the  number  of  his  prisoners,  and  at  the  same  time  afford 
his  troops  a  little  entertainment  in  witnessing  the  drama 
of  the  bean-picking. 

There  was  in  Big  Foot  Wallace's  company  a  young 
fellow  with  a  wife  and  children  waiting  for  him  back 

218 


ONE  AGAINST  MANY  219 

in  Texas,  and  as  the  tattered  group  crowded  around  the 
jar  to  thrust  their  hands  within  and  draw  forth  their 
different  fates  this  soldier  broke  down.  The  thought 
of  the  woman  and  the  babies  was  too  much  for  him. 

Big  Foot  Wallace  had  just  plunged  in  his  hand  when 
the  man  began  to  sob.  He  glanced  down  at  the  white 
bean  which  his  fingers  clutched  and  turned  to  the 
stricken  youth. 

"Here,"  he  whispered  with  an  oath  thrown  in  to 
show  his  indifference  to  the  heroics,  "take  this,  I  'm 
feeling  lucky  to-day." 

With  which  he  turned  over  his  precious  bean  and — 
proceeded  to  draw  another  white  one. 

The  tale  is  told  to  this  day  by  white-bearded  men  who 
maintain  that  it  came  to  them  from  the  lips  of  Big  Foot 
Wallace.  It  has  been  used  as  the  basis  for  at  least  one 
bit  of  fine  fiction,  but  in  its  original  form  it  illuminates 
for  us  of  a  later  generation  the  characters  of  those  ex 
traordinary  men  who  won  the  great  Southwest  away 
from  the  Apaches.  They  were,  whenever  occasion  came, 
perfectly  willing  to  take  a  long  chance  against  ugly 
death.  That  willingness  made  every  one  of  the  old- 
timers  a  host  in  himself. 

During  the  decades  between  the  end  of  the  Mexican 
War  and  the  coming  of  the  railroads  these  men  drifted 
westward  from  the  Rio  Grande  and  the  Pecos.  A  lean 
and  sunburned  crew,  they  came  by  saddle-horse  and 
wagon,  by  thorough-brace  Concord  stage-coach  and  by 
bull  team,  dribbling  into  the  long,  thin  valleys  which 
reach  northward  from  the  Mexican  border  to  the  Gila 
Eiver. 

They  found  such  spots  as  suited  them;  there  they 


220          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

built  their  cabins,  gouged  their  prospect-holes  from  the 
rocky  hillsides,  and  dug  the  irrigation-ditches  for  their 
ranches.  There  were  few  settlements  and  these  remote 
from  one  another;  the  military  posts  were  so  in 
sufficiently  garrisoned  that  the  troopers  had  all  they 
could  do  to  look  out  for  themselves;  and  the  Apaches 
roamed  unhindered  whither  the  lust  for  plunder  led 
them. 

These  savages  had  owned  the  valleys  and  the  ragged 
mountain  ranges  between  them.  They  saw  the  white 
men  drifting  in,  in  twos  and  threes;  they  saw  the  lonely 
camps  and  cabins,  tenanted  by  little  groups  of  settlers, 
beyond  all  reach  of  help ;  they  saw  the  wagon-trains  and 
stages  traveling  without  convoys.  Their  chiefs  were 
wily,  their  warriors  past  masters  of  the  art  of  ambush. 
They  started  in  to  kill  off  the  new-comers ;  and  they  un 
doubtedly  would  have  succeeded  in  depopulating  most 
of  New  Mexico  and  Arizona  if  it  had  not  been  for  that 
one  trait  of  which  Big  Foot  Wallace  furnishes  an  ex 
ample. 

Therein  lies  the  key-note  to  the  incidents  within  this 
little  chronicle;  the  contemptuous  disregard  for  danger, 
the  willingness  to  take  the  supreme  risk,  which  made 
those  old-timers  perform  exploits  that  were  seemingly 
impossible;  which  made  them  outface  their  naked 
enemies — who  were  always  looking  out  for  their  own 
swarthy  skins — and  come  forth  unscathed  from  situa 
tions  wherein  death  seemed  the  only  means  by  which 
they  could  emerge;  which  made  them  win  in  many 
a  grim  fight  where  the  odds  were  one  man  against 
many. 

One   man   against   many.     That  was  the   case   with 


ONE  AGAINST  MANY  221 

Uncle  Billy  Rhodes.  Back  in  the  early  sixties  he  and 
his  partner  had  taken  up  some  land  down  in  the  Santa 
Cruz  valley  near  the  pueblo  of  Tubac.  If  you  drive 
southward  in  your  car  to-day  from  Tucson  you  will  pass 
the  spot  where  Tubac  stood  until  the  Apaches  laid  waste 
the  town  during  Civil  War  times,  and  go  within  a 
stone's  throw  of  the  place  where  Uncle  Billy  Rhodes  ran 
one  of  the  biggest  and  finest  bluffs  in  all  the  history 
of  Indian-fighting. 

It  was  the  custom  of  the  Apaches  to  raid  southward 
from  their  reservations  into  Mexico,  scooping  up  such 
loot  and  lives  as  they  could  during  their  journeys. 
Usually  at  this  particular  time  they  traveled  by  way 
of  the  Santa  Catalina  Mountains,  keeping  well  to  the 
heights  until  they  reached  the  Pantano  Wash,  where 
they  frequently  swooped  down  on  the  Butterfield  stage- 
station  before  climbing  to  the  summits  of  the  Whetstones 
and  the  Huachucas.  Clinging  to  the  rocky  ridges,  they 
went  on  southward  and  watched  the  lowlands  for  signs 
of  victims. 

Such  a  war-party  descended  into  the  Santa  Cruz 
valley  one  afternoon  and  found  Billy  Rhodes 's  partner 
alone  at  the  ranch.  When  they  got  through  with  him 
there  was  little  left  in  the  semblance  of  a  man,  but  they 
took  good  care  to  postpone  burning  the  ranch-buildings, 
contenting  themselves  with  promiscuous  looting. 

The  idea  was  that  smoke  creates  a  warning  signal  and 
Uncle  Billy  Rhodes  would  never  come  within  rifle-shot 
of  the  spot  once  he  got  sight  of  the  ascending  cloud. 
He  was  their  meat;  they  possessed  their  souls  in  pa 
tience  and  settled  down  to  await  his  home-coming. 

Afternoon  was  waning  and  the  first  long  shadows  of 


WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

early  evening  were  beginning  to  steal  across  the  plain 
from  the  base  of  the  mountains  when  Uncle  Billy  rode 
his  jaded  pony  down  the  faint  wagon-track  toward  the 
ranch-house.  He  was  weary  from  the  saddle,  for  he 
had  come  a  long  distance  that  day — so  long  a  distance 
that  the  horse  was  unfit  for  much  more  travel. 

He  passed  his  first  rude  fence  and  was  within  two 
hundred  yards  or  so  of  the  cabin  when  something  made 
him  pull  up.  He  did  not  know  what  that  something 
was;  but  the  bronco  added  to  his  suspicions  by  its  be 
havior.  And  then,  while  he  was  reconnoitering,  an  over- 
eager  brave  took  a  pot-shot  at  him. 

The  bullet  missed,  as  most  Apache  bullets  had  a  habit 
of  doing.  Next  to  the  courage  of  the  old-timers  the 
utter  inability  of  the  North  American  Indian  to  grasp 
the  necessity  of  pulling  down  his  front  sight  was  per 
haps  the  largest  factor  that  helped  the  white  man  to 
win  the  country  west  of  the  Mississippi  River.  Uncle 
Billy  Rhodes  whirled  his  pony  and  started  back  in 
the  direction  he  had  come  from. 

But  the  ponies  of  the  Apaches  were  fresh  from  the 
rest  they  had  enjoyed  while  their  masters  were  pro 
longing  the  death  agonies  of  Uncle  Billy's  partner.  It 
took  but  a  short  time  for  the  Indians  to  catch  them 
up  and  within  a  minute  or  two  something  like  fifty  war 
riors,  turbaned,  naked  from  the  waist  up,  were  crowd 
ing  their  frenzied  mounts  in  the  wake  of  the  fugitive. 

The  chase,  as  might  have  been  expected,  was  a  short 
one.  Before  he  had  gone  a  half-mile  Uncle  Billy  saw 
that  he  was  going  to  be  overtaken.  Already  the  sav 
ages  were  spreading  out,  and  he  could  hear  the  yells  of 
those  who  were  drawing  up  on  each  side. 


ONE  AGAINST  MANY  223 

It  was  the  proper  time  for  a  man  to  despair;  but 
Uncle  Billy  was  too  busy  looking  about  him  for  a 
point  of  vantage  to  indulge  in  any  such  emotion  as 
that.  He  had  an  old-fashioned  cap-and-ball  revolver, 
all  of  whose  chambers  were  loaded;  and  it  was  his  in 
tention  to  make  those  six  bullets  if  possible  account 
for  six  Apaches,  before  he  resigned  himself  to  unkind 
fate. 

The  river-bed  was  close  at  hand;  in  places  the  road 
skirted  the  willow  thickets  which  lined  the  stream.  Be 
fore  the  fugitive  a  particularly  thick  clump  of  the 
green  shrubs  showed ;  all  about  it  the  ground  was  open. 
Uncle  Billy  hardly  bothered  to  check  his  pony's  lame 
gallop  before  casting  himself  bodily  into  the  midst  of 
this  shelter.  And  thereafter  the  affair  took  on  a  differ 
ent  complexion. 

The  Apache  was  never  foolhardy.  Possessed  of 
marvelous  patience,  he  was  willing  to  wait  when  wait 
ing  was  the  more  prudent  course  of  action.  And  in 
the  beginning  the  pursuers,  who  had  encircled  the  wil 
low  thicket,  contented  themselves  with  shooting  from 
a  distance  where  they  could  keep  to  cover. 

But  evening  was  growing  on,  and  these  savages  were 
imbued  with  more  superstitious  fears  of  the  dark  than 
the  members  of  most  Indian  tribes.  It  became  evident 
that  they  must  rush  matters  if  they  would  go  to  camp 
before  the  night  enwrapped  them. 

So  the  forty-odd  came  wriggling  down  the  surround 
ing  slopes  toward  the  willow  thicket,  keeping  as  close  to 
the  earth  as  possible,  striving  to  close  in  before  they 
made  their  open  charge.  Uncle  Billy  waited  until  he 
got  a  good  shot,  and  "turned  loose"  for  the  first  time. 


224          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUISPG 

A  spattering  of  bullets  answered  his,  but  he  had  the 
satisfaction  of  seeing  one  naked  form  lying  motionless 
on  the  hillside. 

There  came  a  yell,  and  now  the  Apaches  showed  them 
selves  as  they  ran  forward.  The  old  revolver  spoke 
again  and  then  the  third  time.  The  charge  broke  in 
its  inception;  and  the  retreating  enemy  left  two  more 
of  their  number  behind  them  when  they  went  back  to 
cover. 

There  followed  an  interval  of  silence.  It  was  suc 
ceeded  by  another  rush.  Uncle  Billy  fired  twice  from 
the  depths  of  his  thicket,  and  both  shots  scored.  The 
Apaches  sought  the  rocks  once  more;  but  the  old-timer 
lay  among  the  willows  with  a  broken  elbow  from  one 
of  their  bullets.  There  was  no  time,  nor  were  there 
means,  for  dressing  the  wound.  He  gritted  his  teeth, 
dug  the  elbow  into  the  soft  sand  to  stanch  the  flow 
of  blood,  and  waited  for  the  next  onset. 

It  came  within  a  few  minutes,  and  Uncle  Billy  fired 
his  last  shot.  The  good  luck  which  sometimes  helps 
out  a  brave  man  in  time  of  trouble  saw  to  it  that  the 
ball  from  his  revolver  found  the  chief  of  the  party. 
When  they  saw  him  fall  the  Indians  retired  in  bad 
order. 

And  now,  where  force  had  failed  them,  the  Apaches 
resorted  to  diplomacy.  All  they  wanted  was  to  get 
their  hands  on  the  white  man,  and  a  little  lying  might 
be  the  means  to  help  them  to  it.  In  Spanish  one  of 
them  called  from  his  cover,  bidding  Uncle  Billy  give 
himself  up  as  a  prisoner.  He  had,  the  herald  said, 
been  so  brave  that  they  would  observe  the  amenities  of 
the  white  man's  warfare;  they  would  not  harm  a  hair 


ONE  AGAINST  MANY  225 

of  his  head.  But  if  he  refused  they  surely  would  come 
on  this  time  and  kill  him. 

To  which  Uncle  Billy  Rhodes  replied  profanely  in 
viting  them  to  make  the  charge. 

"Because,"  he  ended,  "I  'm  plumb  anxious  to  get 
some  more  of  you." 

And  then  he  sat  back  biding  their  coming — with 
his  empty  revolver.  But  the  silence  continued  unin 
terrupted;  the  shadows  merged  to  dusk;  twilight  deep 
ened  to  darkness.  The  Apaches  had  stolen  away,  and 
Uncle  Billy  Rhodes  crept  forth  from  the  willows  to 
catch  up  his  horse  and  ride  with  his  broken  arm  to 
Tucson,  where  he  told  the  story. 

Now  there  is  no  doubt  what  would  have  happened 
to  Uncle  Billy  had  he  been  gullible  enough  to  believe 
that  statement  of  the  Apaches  as  to  his  personal  safety 
in  case  of  surrender.  As  a  matter  of  cold  fact  neither 
Indian  nor  white  man  had  any  particular  reason  to 
look  for  favor  or  expect  the  truth  from  his  enemy  dur 
ing  this  long  struggle. 

Just  to  get  an  idea  of  the  relentlessness  of  their  war 
fare  it  is  worth  while  noting  this  incident  in  passing — 
one  of  those  incidents  which  were  never  reported  to 
Washington  for  the  simple  reason  that  Washington 
could  never  understand  them. 

A  band  of  renegade  Apaches  had  left  the  reserva 
tion  to  go  a-plundering  down  in  Mexico.  A  certain 
troop  of  cavalry  was  riding  after  them  with  the  usual 
instructions  from  Washington  to  bring  them  back  with 
out  bloodshed. 

The  captain  of  the  troop  was  a  seasoned  Indian- 
fighter,  and  he  managed  to  keep  the  fugitives  moving 


226          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

so  fast  that  they  got  next  to  nothing  to  eat.  When  you 
are  traveling  without  rations  along  the  ridges  during 
an  Arizona  summer  and  there  is  no  time  to  stop  for 
hunting,  no  time  to  bake  mescal  roots;  when  you  need 
every  pony  for  riding  and  you  have  eaten  the  last  lean 
dog ;  then  bellies  draw  in  and  the  ribs  begin  to  stand  out. 

There  were  a  number  of  squaws  and  children  in  the 
Apache  outfit,  and  by  the  time  the  chase  had  been 
going  on  for  two  weeks  or  so  with  back-trackings,  twist- 
ings  and  turnings,  and  every  march  a  forced  one,  why 
then  the  pace  of  the  fugitives  began  to  slacken.  And 
the  troopers  overtook  them  one  fine  day  right  out  in  the 
open  where  there  was  no  opportunity  for  stand  or 
ambush. 

According  to  his  instructions  from  the  men  who  ran 
our  Indian  affairs  in  Washington,  the  captain  of  the 
troopers  must  bring  these  renegades  back  unharmed  or 
face  the  necessity  of  making  a  great  many  explana 
tions.  So  he  drew  up  his  men  in  formation  and  rode 
forward  to  parley  with  the  half-starved  savages.  He 
rode  right  up  to  them,  and  their  chief  came  forth  to 
have  a  talk  with  him. 

This  captain  was  a  fine  figure  of  a  man,  and  those 
who  watched  him  say  that  he  made  a  noble  picture  011 
his  big  troop-horse  before  the  frowzy  band  whose  gaunted 
members  squatted  in  the  bear-grass,  their  beady  eyes 
glinting  on  him  under  their  dirty  turbans.  And  he 
was  a  good,  persuasive  talker.  He  promised  them  safe- 
conduct  to  the  reservation  and  assured  them  that  their 
truancy  would  be  overlooked,  were  they  to  come  back 
now. 

He  went  on  to  tell  of  the  rations  which  would  be 


ONE  AGAINST  MANY  227 

issued  to  them.  He  dwelt  on  that;  he  mentioned  the 
leanness  of  their  bodies  and  described  at  length  the 
stores  of  food  that  were  awaiting  for  them  in  the  reserva 
tion  warehouse. 

And  the  words  of  the  captain  were  beginning  to  have 
an  effect.  There  was  a  stirring  among  the  warriors  and 
a  muttering;  men  glanced  at  their  squaws  and  the 
squaws  looked  at  their  children.  The  captain  went  on 
as  if  unconscious  that  his  eloquence  was  bearing  fruit. 

All  the  time  he  was  speaking  a  girl  just  grown  to 
womanhood  kept  edging  toward  him.  In  the  days  when 
food  was  plenty  she  must  have  owned  a  savage  sort  of 
beauty;  but  her  limbs  were  lank  now  and  her  cheeks 
were  wasted.  Her  eyes  were  overlarge  from  fasting 
as  they  hung  on  the  face  of  the  big  captain. 

So  she  stood  at  last  in  the  very  forefront  of  her 
people,  quite  unconscious  that  other  eyes  were  watch 
ing  her.  And  behind  her  her  people  stirred  more  and 
more  uneasily;  they  were  very  hungry. 

Under  the  hot,  clear  sky  the  troopers  sat  in  their 
saddles,  silent,  waiting.  The  lieutenant  who  had  been 
left  in  charge  watched  the  little  drama.  He  saw  how 
the  moment  of  the  crisis  was  approaching;  how  just 
one  little  movement  in  the  right  direction,  one  word 
perhaps,  would  turn  the  issue.  He  saw  the  half -starved 
girl  leaning  forward,  her  lips  parted  as  she"  listened  to 
the  big  captain.  He  saw  an  old  squaw,  wrinkled  and 
toothless,  venom  in  her  eyes,  crouching  beside  the  hun 
gered  girl. 

Suddenly  the  girl  took  an  eager  step  forward.  As 
if  it  were  a  signal  a  full  half  of  the  band  started  in  the 
same  direction. 


228          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

And  just  then  with  the  turning  of  the  scales,  just 
as  the  captain's  eloquence  was  winning,  the  old  squaw 
sprang  to  her  feet.  She  whirled  an  ax  over  her  head 
and  brought  it  down  upon  the  girl.  And  before  the 
body  had  fallen  to  the  earth  a  warrior  leveled  his  rifle 
and  shot  the  captain  through  the  heart. 

The  lieutenant  started  to  turn  toward  his  troopers. 
But  he  never  had  a  chance  to  give  his  order.  The 
whole  blue-clad  band  was  charging  on  a  dead  run. 
What  followed  did  not  take  long.  There  was  not  a 
single  prisoner  brought  back  to  the  reservation. 

When  men  are  warring  in  that  relentless  spirit,  no 
one  who  is  blessed  with  the  ordinary  amount  of  reason 
ing  power  looks  for  mercy  even  if  it  be  promised. 
And  Uncle  Billy  Rhodes  did  well  to  run  his  bluff  down 
there  in  the  willows  by  the  river. 

Sometimes,  however,  the  Apaches  felt  themselves 
forced  to  show  respect  for  their  dead  enemies.  There 
was,  for  instance,  the  short-card  man  from  Prescott. 
Felix  was  his  name;  the  surname  may  be  chronicled 
somewhere  for  all  the  writer  knows;  it  ought  to  be. 
A  short-card  gambler,  and  that  was  not  all;  men  say 
that  he  had  sold  whisky  to  the  Indians,  that  he  was  in 
partnership  with  a  band  of  stock-rustlers,  and  that  on 
occasion  he  had  been  known  to  turn  his  hand  to  robbery 
by  violence.  In  fact  there  is  no  good  word  spoken  of  his 
life  up  to  the  time  when  the  very  end  came. 

In  Prescott  he  owned  none  of  that  friendship  which 
a  man  craves  from  his  fellows;  respect  was  never  be 
stowed  upon  him.  He  walked  the  streets  of  that  fron 
tier  town  a  moral  pariah. 

Those    who    associated    with    him — those    who    made 


ONE  AGAINST  MANY  229 

their  living  by  dubious  means — looked  up  to  him  with 
an  esteem  born  only  of  hard-eyed  envy  for  his  prosper 
ity.  For  he  was  doing  well,  as  the  saying  goes;  mak 
ing  good  money. 

Felix  had  managed  to  find  a  wife,  a  half-breed  Mexi 
can  woman;  and  she  had  borne  him  children,  two  or 
three  of  them.  He  had  a  ranch  some  distance  from 
the  town,  and  many  cattle. 

And  on  the  great  day  of  his  life,  the  day  when  he 
became  glorious,  he  was  driving  from  the  ranch  to 
Prescott  with  his  family:  a  two-horse  buckboard  and 
Felix  at  the  reins;  the  woman  and  the  children  be 
stowed  beside  him  and  about  him. 

Somewhere  along  the  road  the  Apaches  "jumped" 
them,  to  use  the  idiom  of  those  times.  A  mounted 
band  and  on  their  way  across-country,  they  spied  the 
buckboard  and  started  after  it.  The  road  was  rough; 
the  half-broken  ponies  weary;  and  the  renegades  gained 
at  every  jump.  Felix  plied  the  whip  and  kept  his 
broncos  to  the  dead  run  until  their  legs  were  growing 
heavy  under  them  and  the  run  slackened  to  a  lumbering 
gallop. 

Prescott  was  only  a  few  miles  away.  They  reached 
a  place  where  the  road  ran  between  rocky  banks,  a  place 
where  there  was  no  going  save  by  the  wagon-track. 

Felix  slipped  his  arm  around  his  wife  and  kissed  her. 
It  was  perhaps  the  first  time  he  had  done  it  in  years; 
one  can  easily  believe  that.  He  kissed  the  children. 

"Whip  'em  up,"  he  bade  the  woman.  "I'll  hold 
the  road  for  you." 

And  he  jumped  off  of  the  buckboard  with  his  rifle 
and  sixteen  rounds  of  ammunition. 


230          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

In  Prescott  the  woman  told  the  story  and  a  relief 
party  rode  out  within  a  half-hour.  They  found  the 
body  of  the  short-card  man  and  stock-thief  with  the 
bodies  of  fourteen  Indians  sprinkled  about  among  the 
rocks.  And  the  surviving  Apaches,  instead  of  mu 
tilating  the  remains  of  their  dead  enemy  as  was  their 
custom  on  such  occasions,  had  placed  a  bandanna  hand 
kerchief  over  his  face,  weighting  down  its  corners  with 
pebbles  lest  the  wind  blow  it  away. 

It  was  near  Prescott — only  four  miles  below  the  vil 
lage — that  a  woman  fought  Apaches  all  through  a 
long  September  afternoon.  The  Hon.  Lewis  A.  Stevens 
was  in  town  attending  a  session  of  the  Territorial  Leg 
islature  and  his  wife  was  in  charge  of  the  ranch  near 
the  Point  of  Bocks  that  day  in  1867.  A  hired  man  was 
working  about  the  place. 

One  hundred  yards  away  from  the  house  an  enormous 
pile  of  boulders  rose  toward  the  nearer  hills.  Be 
neath  some  of  the  overhanging  rocks  were  great  caves, 
and  the  depressions  between  the  ridges  gave  hiding- 
places  to  shelter  scores  of  men. 

Shortly  after  noon  Mrs.  Stevens  happened  to  look 
from  the  window  of  the  kitchen  where  she  was  at  work. 
Something  was  moving  behind  a  clump  of  spiked  nig- 
gerheads  between  the  back  door  and  the  corrals;  at 
first  glance  it  looked  like  a  dirty  rag  stirring  in  the 
wind,  but  when  the  woman  had  held  her  eyes  on  it  a  mo 
ment  she  saw,  among  the  bits  of  rock  and  the  thorny 
twigs  with  which  it  had  been  camouflaged,  the  folds  of  an 
Apache  warrior's  head-gear. 

Now  as  she  stepped  back  swiftly  from  the  window 


ONE  AGAINST  MANY  231 

toward  the  double-barreled  shotgun  which  was  a  part  of 
her  kitchen  furnishings  and  always  hung  conveniently 
among  the  pots  and  pans,  she  caught  sight  of  more  tur 
bans  there  in  her  back  yard.  With  the  consummate  pa 
tience  of  their  kind  some  twenty-odd  Apaches  had  been 
spending  the  last  hour  or  so  wriggling  along  the  baked 
earth,  keeping  to  such  small  cover  as  they  could  find 
as  they  progressed  inch  by  inch  from  the  boulder  hill 
toward  the  ranch-house. 

The  majority  of  the  savages  were  still  near  the  pile 
of  rocks  when  Mrs.  Stevens  threw  open  her  kitchen 
door  and  gave  the  warrior  behind  the  niggerheads  one 
load  of  buckshot;  and  the  more  venturesome  among 
them  who  had  been  following  their  luckless  compan 
ion's  lead  broke  back  to  that  shelter  at  the  moment  she 
fired.  Fortunately  the  hired  man  was  out  in  the  front 
and  the  roar  of  the  shotgun  brought  him  into  the  house 
on  a  run.  By  this  time  more  than  twenty  Apaches  were 
firing  from  the  hill;  the  tinkling  of  broken  glass  from 
the  windows  and  the  buzzing  of  bullets  was  filling  the 
intervals  between  the  banging  of  their  rifles. 

Like  most  Arizona  ranch-houses  in  those  days,  the 
place  was  a  rather  well-equipped  arsenal.  By  relay 
ing  each  other  at  loading  Mrs.  Stevens  and  the  hired 
man  managed  to  hold  down  opposite  sides  of  the  build 
ing.  Thus  they  repelled  two  rushes;  and  when  the 
enemy  made  an  attempt  to  reach  the  corrals  and  run 
off  the  stock,  they  drove  them  back  to  their  hillside  a 
third  time. 

The  battle  lasted  all  the  afternoon  until  a  neighbor 
by  the  name  of  Johnson  who  had  heard  the  firing  came 


232          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

with  reinforcements  from  his  ranch.  That  evening 
after  the  savages  had  vanished  for  good  Mrs.  Stevens 
sent  a  message  into  Prescott  to  her  husband. 

"Send  me  more  buckshot.  I  'm  nearly  out  of  it," 
was  what  she  wrote. 

During  the  late  sixties  and  the  seventies  the  stage- 
lines  had  a  hard  time  of  it,  what  with  Apaches 
driving  off  stock  and  ambushing  the  coaches  along  the 
road.  There  were  certain  stations,  like  those  at  the 
Pantano  Wash  and  the  crossing  of  the  San  Pedro,  whose 
adobe  buildings  were  all  pitted  with  bullet-marks  from 
successive  sieges;  and  at  these  lonely  outposts  the  ar 
rival  of  the  east  or  west  bound  mail  was  always  more 
or  less  of  a  gamble. 

Frequently  the  old  thorough-brace  Concord  would 
come  rattling  in  with  driver  or  messenger  missing;  and 
on  such  occasions  it  was  always  necessary  to  supply  the 
dead  man's  place  for  the  ensuing  run.  Yet  willing 
men  were  rarely  lacking,  and  an  old  agent  tells  how 
he  merely  needed  to  wave  a  fifty-dollar  bill  in  the 
faces  of  the  group  who  gathered  round  at  such  a  time 
to  secure  a  new  one  to  handle  the  reins. 

In  those  days  an  Indian  fight  wasn't  such  a  great 
matter  if  one  bases  his  opinion  on  the  way  the  papers 
handled  one  of  them  in  their  news  columns.  Judge  by 
this  paragraph  from  the  ' '  Arizonian, ' '  August  27,  1870  : 

On  Thursday,  August  18,  the  mail  buggy  from  the  Rio 
Grande  had  come  fifteen  miles  toward  Tucson  from  the  San 
Pedro  crossing  when  the  driver,  the  messenger,  and  the  escort 
of  two  soldiers  were  killed  by  Apaches.  The  mail  and  stage 
were  burned.  Also  there  is  one  passenger  missing  who  was 
known  to  have  left  Apache  Pass  with  this  stage. 


ONE  AGAINST  MANY  233 

You  are  of  course  at  liberty  to  supply  the  details  of 
that  affair  to  suit  yourself;  but  it  is  safe  to  say  there 
was  something  in  the  way  of  battle  before  the  last  of 
these  luckless  travelers  came  to  his  end.  For  even  the 
passengers  went  well  armed  in  those  days  and  were  en 
tirely  willing  to  make  a  hard  fight  of  it  before  they 
knuckled  under;  as  witness  the  encounter  at  Stem's 
Pass,  where  old  Cochise  and  Mangus  Colorado  got  the 
stage  cornered  on  a  bare  hilltop  with  six  passengers 
aboard  one  afternoon.  The  writer  has  given  that  story 
in  detail  elsewhere,  but  it  is  worth  mentioning  here 
that  it  took  Cochise  and  Mangus  Colorado  and  their 
five  hundred  warriors  three  long  days  to  kill  off  the  Free 
Thompson  party — whose  members  managed  to  take 
more  than  one  hundred  and  fifty  Apaches  along  with 
them  when  they  left  this  life. 

But  drivers  were  canny,  and  even  the  Apache  with 
all  his  skill  at  ambush  could  not  always  entrap  them. 
In  the  "Tucson  Citizen"  of  April  20,  1872,  under  the 
heading  "Local  Matters, "  we  find  this  brief  paragraph: 

The  eastern  mail,  which  should  have  arrived  here  last 
Monday  afternoon,  did  not  get  in  until  Tuesday.  The 
Apaches  attacked  it  at  Dragoon  Pass  and  the  driver  went 
back  fifteen  miles  to  Sulphur  Springs;  and  on  the  second 
trial  ran  the  gauntlet  in  safety. 

Which  reads  as  if  there  might  have  been  considerable 
action  and  much  maneuvering  on  that  April  day  in 
1872  where  the  tracks  of  the  Southern  Pacific  climb  the 
long  grade  up  from  Wilcox  to  Dragoon  Pass. 

There  was  a  driver  by  the  name  of  Tingley  on  the 
Prescott  line  who  had  the  run  between  Wicken- 


234          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

burg  and  La  Paz  back  in  1869.  He  had  seen  much 
Indian-fighting  and  was  sufficiently  seasoned  to  keep  his 
head  while  the  lead  was  flying  around  him.  One  Feb 
ruary  day  he  was  on  the  box  with  two  inside  passengers, 
Joseph  Todd  of  Prescott  and  George  Jackson  of  Peta- 
luma,  California. 

Everything  was  going  well,  and  the  old  Concord 
came  down  the  grade  into  Granite  Wash  with  the  horses 
on  the  jump  and  Tingley  holding  his  foot  on  the  brake. 
They  reached  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  and  the  driver 
lined  them  out  where  the  road  struck  the  level  going. 

And  then,  when  the  ponies  were  surging  into  their 
collars,  with  the  loose  sand  and  gravel  half-way  to  the 
hubs,  somewhere  between  thirty  and  forty  Apaches 
opened  fire  from  the  brush  on  both  sides  of  the  wagon- 
track. 

The  first  volley  came  at  close  range;  so  close  that  in 
spite  of  the  customary  poor  marksmanship  of  their  kind 
the  Indians  wounded  every  man  in  the  coach.  A  bullet 
got  Tingley  in  the  wrist.  He  dropped  the  reins, 
and  before  he  could  regain  them  the  team  was  running 
away. 

The  six  ponies  turned  off  from  the  road  at  the 
first  jump  and  plunged  right  into  the  midst  of  the  In 
dians.  Tingley  could  see  the  half-naked  savages  leap 
ing  for  the  bridles  and  clawing  at  the  stage  door  as 
they  strove  to  get  hand-holds;  but  the  speed  was  too 
great  for  them ;  the  old  Concord  went  reeling  and  bump 
ing  through  the  entire  party,  leaving  several  warriors 
writhing  in  the  sand  where  the  hoofs  of  the  fright- 
maddened  broncos  had  spurned  them. 

By  this  time  Tingley  had  drawn  his  revolver,  and  the 


ONE  AGAINST  MANY  235 

two  passengers  joined  him  in  returning  the  fire  of  the 
enemy.  Now  he  bent  down  and  picked  up  the  reins, 
and  within  the  next  two  hundred  yards  or  so  he  man 
aged  to  swing  the  leaders  back  into  the  road. 

From  there  on  it  was  a  race.  The  Apaches  were 
catching  up  their  ponies  and  surging  along  at  a  dead 
run  to  overtake  their  victims.  But  Tingley,  to  use  the 
expression  of  the  old-timers,  poured  the  leather  into 
his  team,  and  kept  the  long  lead  which  he  had  got. 

The  stage  pulled  up  at  Cullen's  Station  with  its  load 
of  wounded;  and  word  was  sent  to  Wickenburg  for 
a  doctor,  who  arrived  in  time  to  save  the  lives  of  the 
two  inside  passengers,  although  both  men  were  shot 
through  the  body. 

Stage-driver  and  shotgun  messenger  usually  saw 
plenty  of  perilous  adventures  during  the  days  of  Man- 
gus  Colorado,  Cochise,  Victorio,  Nachez,  and  Geronimo; 
but  if  one  was  hungry  for  Indian-fighting  in  those  times 
he  wanted  to  be  a  mule-skinner.  The  teamsters  became 
so  inured  to  battling  against  Apaches  that  the  cook  who, 
when  the  savages  attacked  the  camp  near  Wickenburg 
one  morning  before  breakfast,  kept  on  turning  flapjacks 
during  the  entire  fight  and  called  his  companions  to 
the  meal  at  its  conclusion,  is  but  an  example  of  the  or 
dinary  run  of  wagon-hands.  That  incident,  by  the  way, 
is  vouched  for  in  the  official  history  of  Arizona. 

Bronco  Mitchel's  experiences  afforded  another  good 
illustration  of  the  hazards  of  freighting.  In  the 
latter  seventies  and  the  early  eighties,  when  Vic 
torio,  Nachez,  and  Geronimo  were  making  life  interest 
ing  for  settlers,  he  drove  one  of  those  long  teams  of 
mules  which  used  to  haul  supplies  from  Tucson  to  the 


236          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

military  posts  and  mining  camps  of  southeastern  Ari 
zona.  Apparently  he  was  a  stubborn  man,  else  he  would 
have  forsaken  this  vocation  early  in  the  game. 

At  Ash  Springs  near  the  New  Mexican  boundary  a 
wagon-train  with  which  he  was  working  went  to  camp 
one  hot  summer's  day.  They  had  been  warned  against 
the  place  by  some  one  who  had  seen  Apaches  lurking 
in  the  vicinity ;  but  the  animals  needed  water  and  feed, 
and  the  wagon-master  took  a  chance.  Bronco  Mitchel, 
who  was  young  then,  and  a  foreigner  who  was  cooking 
for  the  outfit  were  placed  on  sentry  duty  while  the 
mules  were  grazing. 

The  heat  of  the  early  afternoon  got  the  best  of  Bronco 
Mitchel  as  he  sat  on  the  hillside  with  his  back  against 
a  live-oak  tree:  and  after  several  struggles  to  keep 
awake,  he  finally  dropped  off.  How  long  he  had  been 
sleeping  he  never  was  able  to  tell,  but  a  shot  awakened 
him. 

He  opened  his  eyes  in  time  to  see  the  whole  place 
swarming  with  Apaches.  The  cook  lay  dead  a  little 
way  from  him.  The  rest  of  his  companions  were  mak 
ing  a  desperate  fight  for  their  lives ;  and  a  half-dozen  of 
the  Indians,  who  had  evidently  just  caught  sight  of 
him,  were  heading  for  him.  There  was  one  thing  to 
do,  and  no  time  to  lose  about  it.  He  ran  as  he  had  never 
run  before,  and  after  a  night  and  day  of  wandering 
was  picked  up,  all  but  dead,  by  a  squad  of  scouting 
cavalry. 

One  evening  two  or  three  years  later  Bronco  Mitch  el 
was  freighting  down  near  the  border,  and  he  made 
his  camp  at  the  mouth  of  Bisbee  Canon.  The  mules 
were  grazing  near  by,  and  he  was  lying  in  his  blankets 


ONE  AGAINST  MANY  237 

under  the  trail-wagon,  with  a  mongrel  puppy,  which  he 
carried  along  for  company,  beside  him. 

Just  as  he  was  dropping  off  to  sleep  the  puppy 
growled.  Being  now  somewhat  experienced  in  the  ways 
of  the  Territory,  Bronco  Mitchel  immediately  clasped 
his  hands  over  the  little  fellow's  muzzle  and  held  him 
there,  mute  and  struggling. 

He  had  hardly  done  this  when  the  thud  of  hoofs  came 
to  his  ears;  and  a  band  of  Apaches  appeared  in  the 
half-light  passing  his  wagon.  There  was  a  company 
of  soldiers  in  camp  within  a  mile  or  two,  and  the  sav 
ages  were  in  a  hurry;  wherefore  they  had  contented 
themselves  with  stealing  the  mules  and  forbore  from 
searching  for  the  teamster,  who  lay  there  choking  the 
puppy  as  they  drove  the  plundered  stock  within  three 
yards  of  him. 

Now  it  so  happened  that  Bronco  Mitchel 's  team  in 
cluded  a  white  mare,  who  was  belled;  for  mules  will 
follow  a  white  mare  to  perdition  if  she  chooses  to  wan 
der  thither.  And  knowing  the  ways  of  that  mare, 
Bronco  Mitchel  was  reasonable  certain  that  she  would 
seize  the  very  first  opportunity  to  stray  from  the  camp 
of  her  captors — just  as  she  had  strayed  from  his  own 
camp  many  a  time — with  all  the  mules  after  her.  So 
when  the  Indians  had  gone  far  enough  to  be  out  of  ear 
shot  he  took  along  his  rifle,  a  bridle,  and  canteen,  and 
dogged  their  trail.  He  did  not  even  go  to  the  trouble  of 
seeking  out  the  soldiers  but  hung  to  the  tracks  alone, 
over  two  ridges  of  the  Mule  Mountains  and  up  a  lonely 
gorge — where,  according  to  his  expectations,  he  met  his 
stock  the  next  day  and,  mounting  the  old  bell  mare, 
ran  them  back  to  Bisbee  Canon. 


238          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

Other  encounters  with  Victorio's  renegades  enriched 
the  teamster's  store  of  experience,  but  his  narrowest  es 
cape  remained  as  the  climax  of  the  whole  list  during 
the  days  when  old  Geronimo  was  off  the  reservation. 
One  torrid  noon  he  had  watered  his  mules  and  drawn 
his  lead  and  trail  wagons  off  the  road  over  in  the  San 
Simon  country. 

At  the  time  it  was  supposed  that  no  renegades  were 
within  a  hundred  miles,  and  Bronco  Mitchel  felt  per 
fectly  safe  in  taking  a  siesta  under  one  of  the  big  ve 
hicles.  Suddenly  he  awakened  from  a  sound  sleep; 
and  when  his  eyes  flew  open  he  found  himself  gazing 
into  the  face  of  an  Apache  warrior. 

The  Indian  was  naked  save  for  his  turban,  a  breech- 
clout,  his  boot-moccasins,  and  the  usual  belt  of  car 
tridges.  Even  for  an  Apache  he  was  unusually  ugly ;  and 
now  as  he  saw  the  eyes  of  the  white  man  meeting  his, 
he  grinned.  It  was  such  a  grin  as  an  ugly  dog  gives 
before  biting.  At  that  instant  Bronco  Mitchel  was 
laying  flat  on  his  back. 

An  instant  later,  without  knowing  how  he  did  it, 
Bronco  Mitchel  was  on  all  fours  with  the  wagon  between 
him  and  the  renegade.  In  this  posture  he  ran  for  some 
distance  before  he  could  gather  his  feet  under  him; 
and  to  stimulate  his  speed  there  came  from  behind 
him  the  cracking  of  a  dozen  rifles.  He  rolled  into  a 
shallow  arroyo  and  dived  down  its  course  like  a  hunted 
rabbit. 

Once  he  took  enough  time  to  look  back  over  his 
shoulder  and  saw  the  turbaned  savages  spreading  out 
in  his  wake.  After  that  he  wasted  no  energy  in  rear 
ward  glances,  but  devoted  all  his  strength  to  the  race, 


ONE  AGAINST  MANY  239 

which  he  won  unscathed,  and  kept  on  teaming  there 
after  until  the  railroad  spoiled  the  business. 

Such  incidents  as  these  of  Bronco  Mitchel's,  how 
ever,  were  all  in  the  day's  work  and  weren  't  regarded 
as  anything  in  particular  to  brag  about  in  those  rough 
times.  As  a  matter  of  fact  the  "Weekly  Arizonian"  of 
May  15,  1869,  gives  only  about  four  inches  under  a  one- 
line  head  to  the  battle  between  Tully  &  Ochoa's  wagon- 
train  and  three  hundred  Apaches,  and  in  order  to  get 
the  details  of  the  fight  one  must  go  to  men  who  heard  its 
particulars  narrated  by  survivors. 

Santa  Cruz  Castaneda  was  the  wagon-master,  an  old- 
timer  even  in  those  days,  and  the  veteran  of  many  In 
dian  fights.  There  were  nine  wagons  in  the  train,  laden 
with  flour,  bacon  and  other  provisions  for  Camp  Grant, 
and  fourteen  men  in  charge  of  them.  The  Apaches  am 
bushed  them  near  the  mouth  of  a  canon  not  more  than 
ten  miles  from  the  post. 

Somehow  the  wagon-master  got  warning  of  what  was 
impending  in  time  to  corral  the  wagons  in  a  circle  with 
the  mules  turned  inside  the  enclosure.  The  teamsters 
disposed  themselves  under  the  vehicles  and  opened  fire 
on  the  enemy,  who  were  making  one  of  those  loose- 
order  rushes  whereby  the  Apache  used  to  love  to 
open  proceedings  if  he  thought  he  had  big  enough 
odds. 

Before  the  accurate  shooting  of  these  leather-faced 
old-timers  the  assailants  gave  back.  When  they  had 
found  cover  they  sent  forward  a  warrior,  who  ad 
vanced  a  little  way  waving  a  white  cloth  and  addressed 
Santa  Cruz  in  Spanish. 

"If  you  will  leave  these  wagons,"  the  herald  said, 


240          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

calling  the  wagon-master  by  name,  "we  will  let  all  of 
you  go  away  without  harming  you. ' ' 

To  which  Santa  Cruz  replied : 

"You  can  have  this  wagon-train  when  I  can't  hold 
it  any  longer." 

The  Apache  translated  the  words  and  backed  away 
to  the  rocks  from  behind  which  he  had  emerged.  And 
the  fight  began  again  with  a  volley  of  bullets  and  a  cloud 
of  arrows.  At  this  time  there  were  about  two  hundred 
Indians  in  the  ambushing  party,  and  they  were  sur 
rounding  the  corral  of  wagons. 

Occasionally  the  Apaches  would  try  a  charge;  but 
there  never  was  a  time  on  record  when  these  savages 
could  hold  a  formation  under  fire  for  longer  than  a 
minute  or  two  at  the  outside;  and  the  rushes  always 
broke  before  the  bullets  of  the  teamsters.  Between  these 
sorties  there  were  long  intervals  of  desultory  firing — 
minutes  of  silence  with  intermittent  pop-popping  to  vary 
the  deadly  monotony.  Once  in  a  while  the  surrounding 
hillsides  would  blossom  out  with  smoke-puffs,  and  the 
banging  of  the  rifles  would  merge  into  a  sort  of  long 
roll. 

Always  the  teamsters  lay  behind  the  sacks  of  flour 
which  they  had  put  up  for  breastworks,  lining  their 
sights  carefully,  firing  with  slow  deliberation.  Now  and 
again  a  man  swore  or  rolled  over  in  limp  silence;  and 
the  sandy  earth  under  the  wagons  began  to  show  red 
patches  of  congealing  blood. 

By  noon  the  forces  of  the  enemy  had  been  augmented 
by  other  Apaches  who  had  come  to  enjoy  the  party  until 
their  number  now  reached  more  than  three  hundred. 


ONE  AGAINST  MANY  241 

And  the  afternoon  sun  came  down  hot  upon  the  handful 
of  white  men.  Ammunition  began  to  run  low. 

The  day  dragged  on  and  the  weary  business  kept  up 
until  the  sun  was  seeking  the  western  horizon,  when  a 
squad  of  seven  cavalrymen  on  their  way  from  Camp 
Grant  to  Tucson  happened  to  hear  the  firing.  They 
came  charging  into  the  battle  as  enthusiastically  as  if 
they  were  seven  hundred,  and  cut  right  through  the 
ring  of  the  Apaches. 

Under  one  of  the  wagons  the  sergeant  in  charge  of  the 
troopers  held  counsel  with  Santa  Cruz  Castaiieda. 
Cartridges  were  getting  scarce;  the*  number  of  the 
Apaches  was  still  growing;  there  was  no  chance  of 
any  other  body  of  soldiers  coming  along  this  way  for  a 
week  or  so  at  the  least. 

*  *  Only  way  to  do  is  make  a  break  for  it, ' '  the  sergeant 
said. 

The  wagon-master  yielded  to  a  fate  which  was  too 
great  for  him  and  consented  to  abandon  the  train. 
They  bided  their  time  until  what  seemed  a  propitious 
moment  and  then,  leaving  their  dead  behind  them,  the 
sixteen  survivors — which  number  included  the  seven 
soldiers — made  a  charge  at  the  weakest  segment  of  the 
circle.  Under  a  cloud  of  arrows  and  a  volley  of  bullets 
they  ran  the  gantlet  and  came  forth  with  their  wounded. 
Hanging  grimly  together,  they  retreated,  holding  off 
the  pursuing  savages,  and  eventually  made  their  way  to 
Camp  Grant. 

Now  the  point  on  which  the  little  newspaper  item 
dwells  is  the  fact  that  the  Indians  burned  the  entire 
wagon-train,  entailing  a  loss  of  twelve  thousand  dollars 


242          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

to  Tully  &  Ochoa  and  of  twenty  thousand  dollars  to  the 
United  States  government..  On  the  heroics  it  wastes  no 
type.  It  seems  to  have  been  regarded  as  bad  taste  in 
those  days  to  talk  about  a  man's  bravery.  Either  that, 
or  else  the  bravery  was  taken  for  granted. 

In  that  same  canon  near  Camp  Grant  two  teamsters 
died,  as  the  berserks  of  old  used  to  like  to  die,  taking 
many  enemies  with  them  to  the  great  hereafter.  James 
Price,  a  former  soldier,  was  the  name  of  one,  and  the 
name  which  men  wrote  on  the  headboard  of  the  other 
was  Whisky  Bill.  By  that  appellation  you  may  sketch 
your  own  likeness  of  him ;  and  to  help  you  out  in  visual 
izing  his  partner,  you  are  hereby  reminded  that  the  gray 
dust  of  those  Arizona  roads  used  to  settle  into  the  deep 
lines  of  the  mule-skinners'  faces  beyond  all  possibility  of 
removal ;  the  sun  and  wind  used  to  flay  their  skins  to  a 
deep,  dull  red. 

Whisky  Bill  and  Jim  Price  with  an  escort  of  two 
cavalry  troopers  were  driving  two  wagons  of  Thomas 
Venable's,  loaded  with  hay  for  Camp  Grant,  when  fifty 
Apaches  ambushed  them  in  the  canon.  Price  was  killed 
at  the  first  volley  and  one  of  the  soldiers  was  badly 
wounded  in  the  face. 

The  three  living  men  took  refuge  under  the  wagons 
and  stood  off  several  rushes  of  the  savages.  Then  the 
soldier  who  had  been  wounded  got  a  second  bullet  and 
made  up  his  mind  he  would  be  of  more  use  in  trying 
to  seek  help  at  Camp  Grant  than  in  staying  where  he 
was.  He  managed  to  creep  off  into  the  brush  before 
the  Indians  got  sight  of  him. 

Now  Whisky  Bill  and  the  other  soldier  settled  down 
to  make  an  afternoon's  fight  of  it,  and  for  three  hours 


ONE  AGAINST  MANY  243 

they  held  off  the  savages.  Half  a  dozen  naked  bodies  lay 
limp  among  the  rocks  to  bear  witness  to  the  old  team 
ster's  marksmanship  when  a  ball  drilled  him  through 
the  chest  and  he  sank  back  dying. 

There  was  only  one  chance  now  for  the  remaining 
trooper,  and  he  took  it.  With  his  seven-shot  rifle  he 
dived  out  from  under  the  wagon  and  gained  the  nearest 
clump  of  brush.  At  once  the  Apaches  sallied  forth 
from  their  cover  in  full  cry  after  him. 

Heedless  of  their  bullets,  he  halted  long  enough  to 
face  about  and  slay  the  foremost  of  his  pursuers;  then 
ran  on  to  a  pile  of  rocks,  where  he  made  another  brief 
stand,  only  to  leave  the  place  as  his  enemies  hesitated 
before  his  fire.  Thus  he  fled,  stopping  to  shoot  when 
those  behind  him  were  coming  too  close  for  comfort; 
and  eventually  they  gave  up  the  chase. 

In  Camp  Grant,  where  he  arrived  at  sundown,  he 
found  his  fellow-trooper,  badly  wounded  but  expected 
to  live,  under  care  of  the  post  surgeon.  And  the  detach 
ment  who  went  out  after  the  renegades  buried  the  two 
teamsters  beside  the  road  where  they  had  died  fighting. 

One  against  many;  that  was  the  rule  in  these  grim 
fights.  But  the  affair  which  took  place  on  the  Cienega 
de  Souz,  fifteen  miles  above  the  old  San  Simon  stage- 
station  and  twenty-five  miles  from  Fort  Bowie,  tops 
them  all  when  it  comes  to  long  odds.  On  October  21, 
1871,  one  sick  man  battled  for  his  life  against  sixty- 
odd  Apaches  and — won  out. 

R.  M.  Gilbert  was  his  name;  he  was  ranching  and 
for  the  sake  of  mutual  aid  in  case  of  Indian  raids  he 
had  built  his  adobe  house  at  one  end  of  his  holding, 
within  two  hundred  yards  of  his  neighbor's  home.  The 


244          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

building  stood  on  bare  ground  at  the  summit  of  a  little 
rise  near  the  Cienega  bottom,  where  the  grass  and  tulles 
grew  waist-high. 

Early  in  the  month  of  October  Gilbert  was  stricken 
with  fever,  and  Richard  Ba-rnes,  the  neighbor,  moved 
into  his  house  to  take  care  of  him.  The  patient  dragged 
along  after  a  fashion  until  the  early  morning  of  the 
twenty-first  found  him  wasted  almost  to  skin  and  bone, 
weak,  bedridden.  And  about  six  o'clock  that  morning 
Barnes  left  the  house  to  go  to  his  own  adobe. 

The  Apaches,  according  to  their  habit  when  they 
went  forth  to  murder  isolated  settlers  or  prospectors, 
had  chosen  the  dawn  for  the  hour  of  attack,  and  they 
were  lying  in  the  tall  grass  in  the  Cienega  bottom  when 
Barnes  emerged  from  the  building.  They  let  him  go 
almost  to  the  other  adobe  before  they  opened  fire;  and 
he  dropped  at  the  volley,  dying  from  several  wounds. 

Then  Gilbert,  who  had  not  stirred  from  his  bed  for 
many  days,  leaped  from  his  blankets  and  took  down  a 
Henry  rifle  from  the  cabin  wall.  He  had  been  weak; 
now  that  thing  which  men  call  "sand"  gave  strength 
unto  him;  and  he  ran  from  the  house  to  rescue  his 
companion. 

The  Apaches  were  rushing  from  the  tulles  toward 
the  prostrate  form.  He  paused  long  enough  to  level 
his  rifle  and  fire ;  then  came  on  again.  And  the  savages 
fell  back.  It  was  easier  to  bide  in  the  shelter  of  the 
tulles  and  kill  off  this  mad  white  man  than  to  show  them 
selves  and  run  a  chance  of  getting  one  of  his  bullets. 

They  reasoned  well  enough;  but  something  mightier 
than  logic  was  behind  Gilbert  that  morning.  With 


ONE  AGAINST  MANY  245 

the  strength  which  conies  to  the  fever-stricken  in 
moments  of  supreme  excitement  he  reached  his  friend, 
picked  him  up,  and  while  the  bullets  of  his  enemies 
kicked  up  dust  all  about  him  bore  him  on  his  shoulders 
back  into  the  cabin.  There  he  laid  him  down  and  pro 
ceeded  to  hold  the  place  against  besiegers. 

The  Apaches  deployed  until  they  were  surrounding 
the  house.  Then  they  opened  fire  once  more,  and  as 
they  shot  they  wriggled  forward,  coming  ever  closer 
until  some  of  them  were  so  near  that  they  were  able  to 
place  their  bullets  through  the  rude  loopholes  which 
the  settler  had  made  for  defense  of  his  home. 

All  the  morning  the  battle  went  on.  Sometimes  the 
savages  varied  their  tactics  by  rushes  and  even  thrust 
the  barrels  of  their  rifles  through  the  windows.  The 
room  was  filled  with  smoke.  During  lulls  in  the  firing 
Gilbert  heard  the  groaning  of  his  companion;  he  heard 
the  moans  change  to  the  long,  harsh  death-rattle. 

Some  time  during  the  noon-hour  as  he  was  standing 
at  a  loophole  shooting  at  a  bunch  of  naked,  frowzy- 
haired  warriors  who  had  appeared  in  front  of  the  build 
ing,  an  Apache  brave  who  had  stolen  up  behind  the 
adobe  took  careful  aim  through  a  broken  window  and 
got  him  in  the  groin.  But  the  sick  man  bound  a  hand 
kerchief  about  the  wound  and  dragged  himself  from 
window  to  window,  loading  his  rifle,  firing  whenever 
a  turban  showed. 

About  midafternoon  a  venturesome  group  of  warriors 
rushed  the  side  hill,  gained  the  cabin  wall  and  flung 
bundles  of  blazing  fagots'  on  the  roof.  And  within  ten 
minutes  the  inside  of  the  place  was  seething  with  smoke- 


246          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

clouds;  showers  of  sparks  were  dropping  on  the  floor; 
flaming  shreds  of  brush  were  falling  all  about  the  sick 
man. 

He  groped  his  way  to  the  bed  and  called  Barnes. 
There  was  no  answer.  He  bent  down  and  peered 
through  the  fumes  at  the*  other's  face.  Death  had 
taken  his  friend. 

Gilbert  loaded  his  rifle  and  a  revolver.  With  a 
weapon  in  either  hand  he  flung  open  the  door,  and  as  he 
ran  forth  he  saw  in  the  hot  afternoon  sunshine  the 
shadow  of  an  Indian  who  was  hiding  behind  a  corner 
of  the  building.  He  leaped  toward  the  place  and  as 
the  warrior  was  stepping  forth  shot  him  in  the  belly. 
Then  he  fled  for  the  tulles  in  the  Cienega  bottom. 

Under  a  shower  of  bullets  he  gained  the  shelter  of 
the  reeds.  And  during  all  the  rest  of  that  afternoon 
he  lay  there  standing  off  the  Apaches.  When  darkness 
came  he  crawled  away.  All  night  and  all  the  next 
day  he  traveled  on  his  hands  and  knees  and  finally 
reached  the*  hay  camp  of  David  Wood,  sixteen  miles 
away. 

Wood  dressed  his  wounds  and  sent  word  to  Camp 
Bowie,  and  a  troop  of  cavalry  chased  the  renegades 
into  the  Chiracahua  Mountains,  where  they  eventually 
escaped,  to  make  their  way  back  to  the  reservation 
in  time  for  next  ration-day. 

These  tales  are  authentic,  and  are  but  a  few  examples 
of  the  battles  which  the  old-timers  fought  during  the 
years  while  they  were  winning  the  Southwest  away  from 
the  Indians.  Some  of  those  old-timers  are  living  to 
this  day. 

There  is  one  of  them  dwelling  in  Dragoon  Pass,  where 


ONE  AGAINST  MANY  247 

the  mountains  come  down  to  the  lowlands  like  a  huge 
promontory  fronting  the  sea.  Uncle  Billy  Fourrs  is  his 
name;  and  if  you  pass  his  place  you  can  see,  on  a 
rocky  knoll,  the  fortress  of  boulders  which  he  built  to 
hold  his  lands  against  the  renegades  back  in  the  seven 
ties. 

Not  many  years  ago  some  Federal  agents  had  Uncle 
Billy  up  in  Tucson  on  a  charge  of  fencing  government 
land,  for  according  to  the  records  he  had  not  gone 
through  the  formality  of  taking  out  some  of  the  requisite 
papers  for  proper  possession.  That  case  is  one  in 
stance  of  a  man  pleading  guilty  and  getting  acquittal. 

For  Uncle  Billy  Fourrs  acknowledged  the  formal 
accusation  and  still  maintained  the  land  was  his  own. 

"How,"  asked  the  government  prosecutor,  "did  you 
get  it?" 

"I  took  it  away  from  the  Indians,"  was  the  answer. 
And  the  jury,  being  an  Arizona  jury,  promptly  ac 
quitted  him.  Which,  was,  when  you  come  to  think 
over  such  incidents  as  the  foregoing,  only  simple  justice. 


THE  OVERLAND  MAIL 

iXROM  the  time  when  the  first  lean  and  bearded  horse- 
JL  men  in  their  garments  of  fringed  buckskin  rode 
out  into  the  savage  West,  men  gave  the  same  excuse 
for  traveling  that  hard  road  toward  the  setting  sun. 

The  early  pathfinders  maintained  there  must  be  all 
manner  of  high-priced  furs  off  there  beyond  the  sky 
line.  The  emigrants  who  followed  in  the  days  of  '49, 
informed  their  neighbors  that  they  were  going  to  gather 
golden  nuggets  in  California.  The  teamsters  who  drove 
the  heavy  freight-wagons  over  the  new  trails  a  few 
years  later  told  their  relatives  and  friends  that  they 
were  going  West  to  better  their  fortunes.  And  when 
the  Concord  coaches  came  to  carry  the  mail  between  the 
frontier  settlements  and  San  Francisco,  the  men  of 
wealth  who  financed  the  different  lines  announced  there 
was  big  money  in  the  ventures;  the  men  of  action  who 
operated  them  claimed  that  high  wages  brought  them 
into  it. 

So  now  you  see  them  all :  pathfinder,  argonaut,  team 
ster,  stage-driver,  pony-express  rider,  and  capitalist, 
salving  their  consciences  and  soothing  away  the 
trepidations  of  their  women-folk  with  the  good  old 
American  excuse  that  they  were  going  to  make  money. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  that  excuse  was  only  an  excuse 
and  nothing  more.  In  their  inmost  hearts  all  these 
men  knew  that  they  had  other  motives. 

248 


THE  OVERLAND  MAIL  249 

There  was  one  individual  who  did  not  try  to  hood 
wink  himself  or  others  about  this  Western  business, 
and  if  you  will  but  take  the  time  to  look  into  his  case 
you  will  be  able  easily  to  diagnose  an  itching  which 
was  troubling  all  the  rest  of  them. 

That  Individual  was  usually  taken  most  acutely  with 
his  ailment  on  a  warm  May  morning,  one  of  those 
mornings  when  the  lawless  youths  of  the  village  de 
cided  to  play  hooky  in  the  afternoon  and  test  the  tem 
perature  of  the  swimming-hole.  On  such  a  morning 
he  was  to  be  found  somewhere  near  the  center  of  the 
school-room,  this  being  the  point  most  remote  from  the 
distraction  of  open  windows  and  hence  selected  for  him 
by  -the  teacher.  He  was  seated  at  a  small  desk-  whose 
top  was  deeply  scored  by  carven  initials  and  mono 
grams  of  rude  design,  all  inked  in  to  give  them  the 
boldness  of  touch  necessary  when  one  would  have  his 
art  impress  the  beholder.  An  open  book  lay  on  that 
desk-top  but  the  eyes  of  the  Individual  were  not  focused 
on  its  pages. 

He  was  gazing — aslant  so  that  the  teacher  would  not 
detect  him  at  it — through  one  of  those  remote  open 
windows.  And  he  was  not  seeing  the  roofs  of  the  little 
town  or  the  alluring  line  of  low  wooded  bluffs-  across 
the  river.  He  was  seeing  swarms  of  Indians-  mounted 
bare-back  on  swift  ponies. 

Swarms  and  swarms  of  them,  stripped  to  the  waist, 
befea-thered,  trousered  in  tightly  fitting  buckskin,  they 
were  defying  all  the  laws  of  gravitation  by  the  manner 
in  which  every  one  clung  by  a  single  heel  to  his  mustang, 
allowing  his  body  to  droop  alongside  in  a  negligently 
graceful  attitude.  These  savages  were  circling  round 


250          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

and  round  a  stage-coach-.  And  on  the  top  of  that  stage 
coach,  with  his  trusty  rifle  at  his  shoulder — while  the 
driver  beside  him  died  a  painful  death, — sat  the 
Individual  himself.  None  other.  And  he  was  cer 
tainly  playing  havoc  with  those  redskins. 

We  need  not  undergo  the  weary  ordeal  of  waiting 
with  him  while  the  clock's  slothful  hands  creep  around 
the  dial.  We  may  skip  the  interval — as  he  would  do 
ever  so  gladly  if  he  only  could — and  see  him  that  night 
as  he  climbs  from  his  bedroom  window,  crawls  down  the 
woodshed  roof,  and  drops  from  the  low  eaves  to  make 
his  way  across  the  vacant  lot  next  door  and  thence — 
out  West. 

As  far  perhaps  as  the  next  town,  which  lies  seven 
miles  or  so  away;  where  he  is  overhauled  and  igno- 
miniously  dragged  back  to  civilization. 

That  Individual — the  only  one  of  them  all  who  did 
not  attain  the  consummation  of  his  hopes,  the  only  one 
who  had  to  stay  at  home — is  the  sole  member  of  the 
foregoing  list  who  acknowledged  his  true  motives.  For 
he  asserted  loudly,  and  with  lamentations,  that  the 
spirit  of  adventure  was  blazing  within  him;  he  wanted 
to  go  out  West  to  fight  Indians  and  desperadoes. 

Resisting  the  temptation  to  indulge  in  dissertation 
concerning  the  beneficial  effects  of  the  dime-novel  on 
the  morale  of  successive  younger  generations,  we  return 
to  the  men  who  said  that  they  went  beyond  the  Mis 
sissippi  to  gain  money.  Like  the  schoolboy  they  were 
hot  with  the  lust  for  adventure.  The  men  of  action 
wanted  to  risk  their  lives,  and  the  men  of  wealth 
wanted  to  risk  their  dollars. 

Which  does  not  imply  that  the  latter  element  were 


THE  OVERLAND  MAIL  251 

anxious  to  lose  those  dollars  any  more  than  it  implies 
that  the  former  expected  to  lose  their  lives.  But  both 
were  eager  for  the  hazard. 

Like  the  schoolboy  all  of  them  dreamed  dreams  and 
saw  visions.  And  the  dreams  were  realized ;  the  visions 
became  actualities.  Few  of  them  justified  their  ex 
cuse  of  money-making ;  many  came  out  of  the  adventure 
poorer  in  this  world's  goods  than  when  they  went  into 
it.  But  every  man  of  them  had  the  time  of  his  life 
and  lived  out  his  days  with  a  wealth  of  memories  more 
precious  than  gold ;  memories  of  a  man's  part  in  a  great 
rough  drama. 

The  Winning  of  the  West,  that  drama  has  been  called. 
Perhaps  no  act  in  the  play  attained  the  heights  which 
were  reached  by  the  last  one  before  the  coming  of  the 
railroad,  the  one  with  which  this  story  has  to  deal, 
wherein  bold  men  allied  themselves  on  different  sides 
to  get  the  contract  of  carrying  the  mails  by  stage-coaches 
on  schedule  time  across  the  wilderness. 

And  in  the  tale  of  this  great  struggle  there  is  another 
motive  in  addition  to  the  love  of  adventure — and  like 
that  love,  unacknowledged  by  those  whom  it  stirred, — 
the  strong  instinctive  desire  for  a  closer  union  which 
exists  among  all  Americans. 

In  the  beginning  there  was  a  frontier  two  hundred 
miles  or  so  west  of  the  Mississippi  River.  Behind  that 
frontier  wide-stacked  wood-burning  locomotives  were 
drawing  long  trains  on  tracks  of  steel;  steamers  came 
sighing  up  and  down  the  muddy  rivers;  cities  smeared 
the  sky  with  clouds  of  coal  smoke;  under  those  sooty 
palls  men  in  high  hats  and  women  in  enormous  hoop- 
skirts  passed  in  afternoon  promenade  down  the  side- 


252          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

walks;  newspapers  displayed  the  day's  tidings  in  black 
head-lines;  the  telegraph  flashed  messages  from  one  end 
of  that  land  to  the  other;  and  where  the  sharp  church 
steeple  of  the  most  remote  village  cut  the  sky,  the 
people  read  and  thought  and  talked  the  same  things 
which  were  being  discussed  in  Delmonico's  at  the  same 
hour. 

Beyond  the  Sierra  Nevadas  there  was  another  civiliza 
tion.  In  San  Fr-ancisco  hotel  lobbies  men  and  women 
passed  and  repassed  one  another  dressed  in  Eastern 
fashions — some  months  late,  but  Eastern  fashions  none 
the  less.  Newspapers  proclaimed  the  latest  tidings 
from  the  East  in  large  type.  Men  were  falling  out 
over  the  same  political  issues  which  embroiled  men  by 
the  Atlantic  seaboard;  they  were  embarking  in  the 
same  sort  of  business  ventures. 

But  two  thousand  miles  of  wilderness  separated  these 
two  portions  of  the  nation.  That  vast  expanse  of 
prairies  as  level  as  the  sea,  of  sage-brush  plains,  of 
snow-capped  mountains  and  silent,  deadly  deserts,  was 
made  more  difficult  by  bands  of  hostile  Indians. 

In  Europe  such  an  interval  would  have  remained  for 
centuries,  to  be  spanned  by  the  slow  migration  of  those 
whom  ill-fortune  and  bad  government  had  driven  from 
the  more  crowded  communities  on  each  side.  During 
that  time  these  two  civilizations  would  have  gone  on 
in  their  own  ways  developing  their  own  distinct  customs, 
until  in  the  end  they  would  have  become  separate  coun 
tries. 

But  the  people  east  of  the  Mississippi  and  the  people 
west  of  the  Sierras  were  Americans,  and  the  desire 
for  a  close  union  was  strong  within  them.  Their  bus- 


THE  OVERLAND  MAIL  253 

iness  habits  were  such  that  they  could  not  carry  on 
commercial  affairs  without  it.  Their  political  beliefs 
and  their  social  tendencies  kept  them  chafing  for  it. 
And  furthermore  it  was  their  characteristic  not  to 
acknowledge  nature's  obstacles  as  permanent.  Two 
thousand  miles  of  wild  prairie,  mountain  ranges,  and 
deserts  simply  meant  a  task,  the  more  blithely  to  be 
undertaken  because  it  was  made  hazardous  by  the 
presence  of  hostile  savages. 

So  now  the  East  began  to  cry  to  the  West  and  the 
West  to  the  East,  each  voicing  a  desire  for  quicker 
communication,  and  to  get  letters  from  New  York  to 
San  Francisco  in  fast  time  became  one  of  the  problems 
of  the  day. 

The  first  step  toward  solution  was  the  choice  of  a 
route,  and  while  this  was  up  to  Washington,  the  proof 
on  which  it  rested  was  up  to  the  men  of  wealth  and 
the  men  of  action.  Immediately  two  rival  groups 
began  striving,  each  to  prove  that  its  route  was  the 
quickest.  Russel,  Majors  &  Waddel,  who  held  large 
freighting  contracts  on  the  northern  road,  from  Inde 
pendence,  Missouri,  via  Salt  Lake  to  Sacramento,  bent 
their  energies  to  demonstrating  its  practicability;  the 
Wells-Butterfield  coterie  of  stage  and  express  men 
undertook  to  show  that  the  longer  pathway  from  St. 
Louis  by  way  of  the  Southwestern  territories  to  San 
Francisco  was  best. 

In  1855  Senator  W.  M.  Gwinn  of  California,  who  had 
conceived  the  idea  with  F.  B.  Ficklin,  general  superin 
tendent  of  the  Russel,  Majors  &  Waddel  Co.,  introduced 
a  bill  in  Congress  for  bringing  the  mails  by  horseback 
on  the  northern  route,  but  the  measure  was  pigeonholed. 


254          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

Snow  in  the  mountains  was  the  main  argument  against 
it, 

In  1857  James  E.  Birch  got  the  contract  for  carrying 
a  semimonthly  mail  from  San  Antonio,  Texas,  to  San 
Diego,  and  the  southern  route's  champions  had  the 
opportunity  to  prove  their  contention. 

Save  for  a  few  brief  stretches  in  Texas  and  Arizona 
there  was  no  wagon  road.  El  Paso  and  Tucson  were 
the  only  towns  between  the  termini.  A  few  far-flung 
military  outposts,  whose  troops  of  dragoons  were  having 
a  hard  time  of  it  to  hold  their  own  against  the  Com- 
anches  and  Apaches,  afforded  the  only  semblance  of 
protection  from  the  Indians. 

Horsemen  carried  the  first  mail-sacks  across  this 
wilderness  of  dark  mountains  and  flaming  deserts.  On 
that  initial  trip  Silas  St.  Johns  and  Charles  Mason  rode 
side  by  side  over  the  stretch  from  Cariso  Creek  to 
Jaeger's  Ferry,  where  Yuma  stands  to-day.  That  ride 
took  them  straight  through  the  Imperial  valley.  The 
waters  of  the  Colorado,  which  have  made  the  region 
famous  for  its  rich  crops,  had  not  been  diverted  in 
those  days.  It  was  the  hottest  desert  in  North  America ; 
sand  hills  and  blinding  alkali  flats,  and  only  one  tepid 
spring  in  the  whole  distance.  One  hundred  and  ten 
miles  and  the  two  horsemen  made  it  in  thirty-two  hours 
— without  remounts. 

The  company  now  began  to  prepare  the  way  for  stage 
coaches.  During  the  latter  part  of  November,  St.  Johns 
and  two  companions  drove  a  herd  of  stock  from  Jaeger's 
Ferry  to  Maricopa  Wells.  The  latter  point  had  been 
selected  for  a  relay  station  because  of  water  and  the 
presence  of  the  friendly  Pima  and  Maricopa  Indians, 


THE  OVERLAND  MAIL  255 

who  kept  the  Apaches  at  a  distance.  During  that 
drive  of  something  like  two  hundred  miles  the  pack- 
mule  lost  his  load  one  night  in  the  desert.  The  men 
went  without  food  for  three  days,  and  for  thirty-six 
hours  traveled  without  a  drop  of  water  in  their 
canteens. 

The  first  stage  left  San  Diego  for  the  East  in  Decem 
ber  with  six  passengers.  Throughout  the  trip  a  hostler 
rode  behind  herding  a  relay  team.  The  driver  kept  his 
six  horses  to  their  utmost  for  two  hours;  then  stock 
and  wearied  passengers  were  given  a  two  hours'  rest, 
after  which  the  fresh  team  was  hooked  up  and  the 
journey  resumed. 

In  this  manner  they  made  about  fifty  miles  a  day. 
Luck  was  with  them.  There  were  several  runaways 
along  the  route;  at  Fort  Davis,  Texas,  they  found  the 
garrison,  whom  they  had  expected  to  supply  them  with 
provisions  according  to  orders  from  Washington,  short 
of  food,  and  they  subsisted  for  the  next  five  days  on 
what  barley  they  felt  justified  in  taking  away  from  the 
horses;  they  arrived  at  Camp  Lancaster  just  after  the 
departure  of  a  Comanche  war-party  who  had  stolen  all 
the  stock,  and  were  obliged  to  go  two  hundred  miles 
further  before  they  could  get  a  relay.  But  these  inci 
dents,  and  a  delay  or  two  because  of  swollen  rivers, 
were  accounted  only  small  mishaps.  They  came  through 
with  their  scalps  and  the  mail-sacks — only  ten  days 
behind  the  schedule. 

Thereafter  the  Birch  line  continued  its  service;  and 
letters  came  from  San  Francisco  to  St.  Louis  in  about 
six  weeks.  Occasionally  Indians  massacred  a  party  of 
travelers;  now  and  then  renegade  whites  or  Mexicans 


256          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

robbed  the  passengers  of  their  belongings  and  looted 
the  mail-sacks.  But  such  things  were  no  more  than 
any  one  expected.  James  Birch  had  proved  his  point. 
The  southern  route  was  practical,  and  in  1858  the  gov 
ernment  let  a  six  years'  contract  for  carrying  letters 
twice  a  week  between  St.  Louis  and  San  Francisco,  to 
John  Butterfield  of  Utica,  New  York. 

Thus  the  Wells-Butterfield  interests  scored  the  first 
decisive  victory. 

Butterfield 's  compensation  was  fixed  at  $600,000  a 
year  and  the  schedule  at  twenty-five  days.  The  route 
went  by  way  of  Fort  Smith,  Arkansas,  El  Paso,  Tucson, 
and  Jaeger's  Ferry.  Tie  one  end  of  a  loose  string  to 
San  Francisco  and  the  other  to  St.  Louis  on  your 
wall-map ;  allow  the  cord  to  droop  in  a  semicircle  to  the 
Mexican  boundary,  and  you  will  see  the  general  direc 
tion  of  that  road,  whose  length  was  2760  miles.  Of 
this  nearly  two  thousand  miles  was  in  a  hostile  Indian 
country. 

Twenty-seven  hundred  and  sixty  miles  in  twenty- 
five  days,  meant  a  fast  clip  for  horses  and  a  lumbering 
Concord  coach  over  ungraded  roads.  And  such  a  clip 
necessitated  frequent  relays.  Which,  in  their  turn,  de 
manded  stations  at  short  intervals.  While  a  road  gang 
was  removing  the  ugliest  barriers  in  the  different  moun 
tain  passes — which  was  all  the  smoothing  away  that 
highway  ever  got  during  the  stage-coach  era — a  party 
went  along  the  line  erecting  adobe  houses.  These  houses 
were  little  forts,  well  suited  for  withstanding  the  at 
tacks  of  hostile  Indians.  The  corrals  beside  them  were 
walled  like  ancient  castle-yards. 

William  Buckley  of  Watertown,  New  York,  headed 


THE  OVERLAND  MAIL  257 

this  party.  Bands  of  mounted  Comanches  attacked 
them  on  the  lonely  Staked  Plains  of  western  Texas. 
Apaches  crept  upon  them  in  the  mountains  of  south 
western  New  Mexico.  Of  the  battles  which  they  fought 
history  contains  no  record;  but  they  went  on  driving 
the  Mexican  laborers  to  their  toil  under  the  hot  sun, 
and  the  chain  of  low  adobe  buildings  crept  slowly  west 
ward. 

In  those  days  Mexican  outlaws  were  drifting  into 
Arizona  and  New  Mexico  from  Chihuahua  and  Sonora; 
and  these  cutthroats,  to  whom  murder  was  a  means  of 
livelihood,  were  amost  as  great  a  menace  as  the  In 
dians.  Three  of  them  got  jobs  on  the  station  building 
gang  and  awaited  an  opportunity  to  make  money 
after  their  bloody  fashion. 

At  Dragoon  Springs  they  found  their  chance. 

Here,  where  the  Dragoon  Mountains  come  out  into  the 
plain  like  a  lofty  granite  promontory  that  faces  the  sea, 
the  party  had  completed  the  walls  of  a  stone  corral, 
within  which  enclosure  a  storehouse  and  stage  station 
were  partitioned  off.  The  roofing  of  these  two  rooms 
and  some  ironwork  on  the  gate  remained  to  be  com 
pleted.  The  main  portion  of  the  party  moved  on  to  the 
San  Pedro  River,  leaving  Silas  St.  Johns  in  charge  of  six 
men  to  attend  to  these  details.  The  three  Mexican 
bandits  were  members  of  this  little  detachment.  The 
other  three  were  Americans. 

The  place  was  right  on  the  road  which  Apache  war- 
parties  took  to  Sonora.  For  this  reason  a  guard  was 
maintained  from  sunset  to  sunrise.  St.  Johns  always 
awoke  at  midnight  to  change  the  sentries.  One  star 
light  night  when  he  had  posted  the  picket  who  was  to 


258          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

watch  until  dawn,  St.  Johns  went  back  to  his  bed  in 
the  unroofed  room  that  was  to  serve  as  station.  He 
dropped  off  to  sleep  for  an  hour  or  so  and  was  roused 
by  a  noise  among  the  stock  in  the  corral.  The  sound 
of  blows  and  groans  followed. 

St.  Johns  leaped  from  his  blankets  just  as  the  three 
Mexicans  rushed  into  the  room.  Two  of  them  were 
armed  with  axes  and  the  third  with  a  sledge. 

The  fight  that  followed  lasted  less  than  a  minute. 

St.  Johns  kicked  the  foremost  murderer  in  the  stom 
ach,  and  as  the  man  fell,  sprang  for  a  rifle  which  he 
kept  in  the  room.  The  other  two  attacked  him  with  their 
axes.  He  parried  one  blow,  aimed  at  his  head,  and  the 
blade  buried  itself  in  its  hip.  While  the  man  was  tug 
ging  to  free  the  weapon  St.  Johns  felled  him  with  a  blow 
on  the  jaw.  The  third  Mexican  struck  downward  at 
almost  the  same  instant,  severing  St.  Johns'  left  arm 
near  the  shoulder. 

Then  the  white  man  got  his  right  hand  on  his  rifle 
and  the  three  murderers  fled.  They  had  killed  one  of 
the  Americans  who  was  sleeping  in  the  enclosure,  left 
another  dying  near  him  and  the  third  gasping  his  last 
outside  the  gate. 

St.  Johns  staunched  the  blood  from  his  wounds  and 
crawled  to  the  top  of  a  pile  of  grain-sacks  whence  he 
could  see  over  the  unroofed  wall.  Here  he  stayed  for 
three  days  and  three  nights.  With  every  sunrise  the 
magpies  and  buzzards  came  in  great  flocks,  to  sit  upon 
the  wall  after  they  had  sated  themselves  in  the  corral, 
and  watch  him.  With  every  nightfall  the  wolves  slunk 
down  from  the  mountains  and  fought  over  the  body 


THE  OVERLAND  MAIL  259 

outside  the  gate.  Night  and  day  the  thirst-tortured 
mules  kept  up  a  pandemonium. 

A  road-grading  party  came  along  on  Sunday  morn 
ing.  They  gave  him  such  first  aid  as  they  could  and 
sent  a  rider  to  Fort  Buchanan  for  a  surgeon.  The 
doctor  amputated  the  arm  nine  days  after  the  wound 
had  been  inflicted.  Three  weeks  later  St.  Johns  was 
able  to  ride  a  horse  to  Tucson. 

Silas  St.  Johns  is  offered  as  a  sample  of  the  men  who 
built  and  operated  the  overland  mail  lines.  Among  the 
drivers,  stock-tenders,  and  messengers  there  were  many 
others  like  him.  Iron  men,  it  was  not  easy  to  kill 
them,  and  so  long  as  there  was  breath  in  their  bodies 
they  kept  on  fighting. 

John  Butterfield  and  his  associates  were  made  of  the 
same  stuff  as  these  employees. 

How  many  hundred  thousand  dollars  these  pioneer  in 
vestors  put  into  their  line  before  the  turning  of  a  single 
wheel  is  not  known ;  it  must  have  been  somewhere  near  a 
cool  million,  and  this  was  in  a  day  when  millions  were 
not  so  common  as  they  are  now ;  a  day,  moreover,  when 
nothing  in  the  business  was  certain  and  everything  re 
mained  to  be  proved. 

They  established  more  than  a  hundred  stage-stations 
along  that  semicircle  through  the  savage  Southwest. 
They  bought  about  fifteen  hundred  mules  and  horses, 
which  were  sent  out  along  the  route.  To  feed  these  ani 
mals,  hay  and  grain  were  freighted,  in  some  cases  for 
two  hundred  miles,  and  the  loads  arrived  at  the  corrals 
worth  a  goodly  fraction  of  their  weight  in  silver.  There 
was  a  station  in  western  Texas  to  which  teamsters  had  to 


260          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

haul  water  for  nine  months  of  the  year  from  twenty-two 
miles  away.  At  every  one  of  these  lonely  outposts 
there  were  an  agent  and  a  stock-tender,  and  at  some  it 
was  necessary  to  maintain  what  amounted  to  a  little 
garrison.  Arms  and  ammunition  were  provided  for 
defense  against  the  savages;  provisions  were  laid  in  to 
last  for  weeks.  One  hundred  Concord  coaches  were 
purchased  from  the  Abbot-Downing  Co.,  who  had  been 
engaged  in  the  manufacture  of  these  vehicles  in  the  New 
Hampshire  town  since  1813;  they  were  built  on  the 
thorough-brace  pattern,  and  were  regarded  as  the  best 
that  money  could  buy.  Seven  hundred  and  fifty  men, 
of  whom  a  hundred  and  fifty  were  drivers,  were  put  on 
the  pay-roll  and  transported  to  their  stations. 

Nearly  all  this  outlay  was  made  before  the  beginning 
of  the  first  trip.  It  was  the  greatest  expenditure  of 
money  on  a  single  transportation  project  of  its  kind  up 
to  this  time  in  America.  And  there  were  a  thousand 
hazards  of  the  wilderness  to  be  incurred,  a  thousand 
obstacles  of  nature  to  be  overcome  before  the  venture 
could  be  proved  practical. 

The  men  of  money  had  done  their  part  now.  The 
line  was  ready  for  the  opening  of  traffic.  On  Sep 
tember  15,  1853,  the  mail-sacks  started  from  St.  Louis 
and  San  Francisco.  It  was  up  to  the  men  of  action  to 
get  them  through  within  the  schedule. 

Twenty-five  days  was  the  allowance  for  the  2760 
miles.  The  westbound  coach  reached  San  Francisco 
about  twenty-four  hours  inside  of  the  limit.  On  that 
October  evening  crowds  packed  Montgomery  Street; 
the  booming  of  cannon  and  the  crashing  of  anvils  loaded 
with  black  powder,  the  blaring  of  brass  bands  and  the 


THE  OVERLAND  MAIL  261 

voices  of  orators,  all  mingled  in  one  glad  uproar,  to  tell 
the  world  that  the  people  by  the  Golden  Gate  appreci 
ated  the  occasion. 

In  St.  Louis,  the  eastbound  mail  was  an  hour  earlier. 
John  Butterfield  stepped  from  the  Missouri  Pacific 
train  with  the  sacks,  and  a  great  procession  was  on  hand 
to  escort  him  to  the  post-office. 

Bands  and  carriages  and  a  tremendous  display  of 
red,  white,  and  blue  bunting  enlivened  the  whole  city. 
President  Buchanan  sent  a  telegram  of  congratulation. 

It  looked  as  if  the  northern  route  were  out  of  it  for 
good  now,  but  it  remained  for  the  men  to  keep  the 
southern  line  in  operation.  What  had  been  done  was 
only  a  beginning;  the  long  grind  of  real  accomplish 
ment  still  lay  ahead. 

Storm  and  flood  and  Indian  massacre  were  incidents; 
hold-ups  and  runaways  mere  matters  of  routine  in 
carrying  on  the  task.  The  stock  was  for  the  most  part 
unbroken.  At  nearly  every  change  the  fresh  team 
started  off  on  a  mad  gallop,  and  if  the  driver  had  a  wide 
plain  where  he  could  let  them  go  careering  through  the 
mesquite  or  greasewood,  while  the  stage  followed, 
sometimes  on  two  wheels,  sometimes  on  one,  he  counted 
himself  lucky.  There  was  many  a  station  from  which  the 
road  led  over  broken  country — along  steep  side  hills, 
across  high-banked  washes,  skirting  the  summits  of 
rocky  precipices;  and  on  such  stretches  it  was  the  rule 
rather  than  the  exception  for  the  coach  to  overturn. 

The  bronco  stock  was  bad  enough  but  the  green  mules 
were  the  worst.  It  was  often  found  necessary  to  lash 
the  stage  to  a  tree — if  one  could  be  found  near  the  sta 
tion,  and  if  not  to  the  corral  fence — while  the 


262         'WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

long-eared  brutes  were  being  hooked  up.  When  the 
last  trace  had  been  snapped  into  place  the  hostlers 
would  very  gingerly  free  the  vehicle  from  its  moor 
ings  and,  as  the  ropes  came  slack,  leap  for  their  lives. 

They  called  the  route  a  road.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
that  term  was  a  far-fetched  euphemism.  In  some  places 
approaches  had  been  dug  away  to  the  beds  of  streams; 
and  the  absolutely  impassable  barriers  of  the  living 
rock  had  been  removed  from  the  mountain  passes.  But 
that  was  all.  What  with  the  long  climbs  upgrade  and 
the  bad  going  through  loose  sand  or  mud,  it  was  always 
necessary  for  the  driver  to  keep  his  six  animals  at  a 
swinging  trot  when  they  came  to  a  level  or  a  downhill 
pull.  Often  he  had  to  whip  them  into  a  dead  run  for 
miles  where  most  men  would  hesitate  to  drive  a  buck- 
board  at  a  walk. 

During  the  rainy  seasons  the  rivers  of  that  South 
western  land  proceeded  to  demonstrate  that  they  had 
a  right  to  the  name — to  which  they  never  pretended  to 
live  up  at  other  times — by  running  bank  full.  These 
coffee-colored  floods  were  underlaid  by  thick  strata  of 
quicksands.  Occasionally  one  of  them  simply  absorbed 
a  coach ;  and,  unless  the  driver  was  very  swift  in  cutting 
the  traces,  it  took  unto  itself  two  or  three  mules  for 
good  measure. 

The  Comanche  Indians  were  on  the  war-path  during 
these  years  in  western  Texas.  On  the  great  Staked 
Plain  they  swooped  down  on  many  a  stage,  and  driver 
and  passengers  had  to  make  a  running  fight  of  it  to  save 
their  scalps.  The  Indians  attacked  the  stations,  two  or 
three  hundred  of  them  in  a  band.  The  agents  and  stock- 
tenders,  who  were  always  on  the  lookout,  usually  saw 


THE  OVERLAND  MAIL  263 

them  in  time  to  retreat  inside  the  thick  adobe  walls  of 
the  building,  from  which  shelter  they  sometimes  were 
able  to  stand  them  off  without  suffering  any  particular 
damage.  But  sometimes  they  were  forced  to  watch  the 
enemy  go  whooping  away  with  the  stampeded  stock 
from  the  corral.  And  now  and  again  there  was  a 
massacre. 

Under  Mangus  Colorado,  whom  historians  account 
their  greatest  war-chief,  the  Apaches  were  busy  in 
New  Mexico  and  Arizona.  They  worked  more  care 
fully  than  their  Texan  cousins,  and  there  was  a  gorge 
along  the  line  in  that  section  which  got  the  name  of 
Doubtful  Canon  because  the  only  thing  a  driver  could 
count  on  there  with  any  certainty  was  a  figLt  before  he 
got  through  to  the  other  side. 

Nor  were  the  Indians  the  only  savage  men  in  that 
wilderness.  Arizona  was  becoming  a  haven  for  fugi 
tives  from  California  vigilance  committees  and  for 
renegade  Mexicans  from  south  of  the  boundary.  The 
road-agents  went  to  work  along  the  route,  and  near 
Tuscon  they  did  a  thriving  business. 

Yet  with  all  these  enemies  and  obstacles,  it  is  a  matter 
of  record  that  the  Butterfield  overland  mail  was  only 
late  three  times. 

In  spite  of  runaways,  bad  roads,  floods,  sand-storms, 
battles,  and  hold-ups,  the  east  and  west  bound  stages 
usually  made  the  distance  in  twenty-one  days.  And 
there  was  a  long  period  during  1859  when  the  two 
mails — which  had  started  on  the  same  day  from  the  two 
termini — met  each  other  at  exactly  the  half-way  point. 
Apparently  the  Wells-Butterfield  interests  had  won 
the  struggle.  Service  was  increased  to  a  daily  basis  and 


264          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

the  compensation  was  doubled.  The  additional  load 
was  handled  with  the  same  efficiency  that  had  been 
shown  in  the  beginning. 

It  is  hard,  in  these  days  of  steam  and  gasolene  and 
electricity,  to  understand  how  men  did  such  things 
with  horse-flesh.  The  quality  of  the  men  themselves 
explains  that.  One  can  judge  that  quality  by  an  affair 
which  took  place  at  Stein's  Pass. 

"Steen's  Pass/'  as  the  old-timers  spelled  it — and  as 
the  name  is  still  pronounced — is  a  gap  in  the  mountains 
just  west  of  Lordsburg,  New  Mexico.  The  Southern 
Pacific  comes  through  it  to-day.  One  afternoon 
Mangus  Colorado  and  Cochise  were  in  the  neighborhood 
with  six  hundred  Apache  warriors,  when  a  smoke  signal 
from  distant  scouts  told  them  that  the  overland  stage 
was  approaching  without  an  armed  escort.  The  two 
chieftains  posted  their  naked  followers  behind  the  rocks 
and  awaited  the  arrival  of  their  victims. 
.  When  one  remembers  that  such  generals  as  Crook  have 
expressed  their  admiration  for  the  strategy  of  Cochise, 
and  that  Mangus  Colorado  was  the  man  who  taught  him, 
one  will  realize  that  Stein's  Pass,  which  is  admirably 
suited  for  all  purposes  of  ambush,  must  have  been  a 
terribly  efficient  death-trap  when  the  Concord  stage 
came  rumbling  and  rattling  westward  into  it  on  that 
blazing  afternoon. 

There  were  six  passengers  in  the  coach,  all  of  them 
old-timers  in  the  West.  And  they  were  known  as  the 
Free  Thompson  party,  from  the  name  of  the  leader. 
Every  one  of  these  men  was  armed  with  a  late  model 
rifle  and  was  taking  full  advantage  of  the  company's 


THE  OVERLAND  MAIL  265 

rule  which  allowed  the  carrying  of  as  much  ammunition 
as  one  pleased.  They  had  several  thousand  rounds  of 
cartridges. 

Such  a  seasoned  company  as  this  was  not  likely  to  go 
into  a  place  like  Stein's  Pass  without  taking  a  look  or 
two  ahead;  and  six  hundred  Apaches  were  certain  to 
offer  some  evidence  of  their  presence  to  keen  eyes. 
Which  probably  explains  why  the  horses  were  not  killed 
at  once.  For  they  were  not.  The  driver  was  able  to 
get  the  coach  to  the  summit  of  a  low  bare  knoll  a  little 
way  off  the  road.  The  Free  Thompson  party  made 
their  stand  on  that  hill-top. 

They  were  cool  men,  uncursed  by  the  fear  of  death, 
the  sort  who  could  roll  a  cigarette  or  bite  a  mouthful 
from  a  plug  of  chewing-tobacco  between  shots  and  en 
joy  the  smoke  or  the  cud ;  the  sort  who  could  look  upon 
the  advance  of  overwhelming  odds  and  coolly  estimate 
the  number  of  yards  which  lay  between. 

These  things  are  known  of  them  and  it  is  known  that 
the  place  where  they  made  their  stand  was  far  from 
water,  a  bare  hill-top  under  a  flaming  sun,  and  round 
about  them  a  ring  of  yelling  Apaches. 

There  were  a  few  rocks  affording  a  semblance  of 
cover.  You  can  picture  those  seven  men,  with  their 
weather-beaten  faces,  their  old-fashioned  slouching 
wide-rimmed  hats,  and  their  breeches  tucked  into 
their  boot-tops.  You  can  see  them  lying  behind  those 
boulders  with  their  leathern  cheeks  pressed  close  to 
their  rifle-stocks,  their  narrowed  eyes  peering  along 
the  lined  sights;  and  then,  as  time  went  on,  crouching 
behind  the  bodies  of  their  slain  horses. 


266         WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

And  you  can  picture  the  turbaned  Apaches  with 
their  frowzy  hair  and  the  ugly  smears  of  paint  across 
their  grinning  faces.  You  can  see  them  creeping  on 
their  bellies  through  the  clumps  of  coarse  bear-grass, 
gliding  like  bronze  snakes  among  the  rocks,  slowly 
enough — the  Apache  never  liked  the  music  of  a  rifle- 
bullet — but  coming  closer  every  hour.  Every  gully 
and  rock  and  clump  of  prickly  pear  for  a  radius  of  a 
half-mile  about  that  knoll  sheltered  its  portion  of  the 
venomous  brown  swarm. 

Night  followed  day;  hot  morning  grew  into  scorch 
ing  noon-tide;  the  full  flare  of  the  Arizona  afternoon 
came  on;  and  night  again.  The  rifles  cracked  in  the 
bear-grass.  Thin  jets  of  pallid  flame  spurted  from 
behind  the  rocks.  The  bullets  kicked  up  little  dust- 
clouds. 

So  for  three  days  and  three  nights.  For  it  took  those 
six  hundred  Apaches  that  length  of  time  to  kill  the 
seven  white  men. 

But  before  the  last  of  them  died,  the  Free  Thompson 
party  slew  between  135  and  150  Indians. 

In  after  years  Cochise  told  of  the  battle. 

"They  were  the  bravest  men  I  ever  saw,"  he  said. 
"They  were  the  bravest  men  I  ever  heard  of.  Had 
I  five  hundred  warriors  such  as  they,  I  would  own  all 
of  Chihuahua,  Sonora,  New  Mexico,  and  Arizona." 

That  was  the  breed  of  men  who  kept  the  Butterfield 
stage  line  open,  and  the  affair  at  Stein's  Pass  is  cited 
to  show  something  of  their  character,  although  it  took 
place  after  the  company  began  removing  its  rolling- 
stock.  For  in  1860  Eussel,  Majors  &  Waddel  ac- 


THE  OVERLAND  MAIL  267 

complished  a  remarkable  coup  and  brought  the  over 
land  mail  to  the  northern  route. 

They  performed  what  is  probably  the  most  dar 
ing  exploit  in  the  history  of  transportation.  The 
story  of  their  venture  bristles  with  action;  it  is 
adorned  by  such  names  as  Wild  Bill  Hickok,  Pony 
Bob  Haslam,  Buffalo  Bill,  and  Colonel  Alexander 
Majors. 

Colonel  Majors  held  the  broadhorn  record  on  the 
old  Santa  Fe  trail,  ninety-two  days  on  the  round  trip 
with  oxen.  He  was  the  active  spirit  of  the  firm  of 
Russel,  Majors  &  Waddel.  In  1859  these  magnates  of 
the  freighting  business  had  more  than  six  thousand 
huge  wagons  and  more  than  75,000  oxen  on  the  road 
between  St.  Joseph,  Missouri,  and  Salt  Lake  City, 
hauling  supplies  for  government  posts  and  mining 
companies;  they  were  operating  a  stage  line  to  Denver 
where  gold  excitements  were  bringing  men  in  droves. 

One  day  in  the  winter  of  1859-60  Senator  W.  M. 
Gwinn  of  California  had  a  meeting  with  Majors' 
senior  partner,  William  H.  Russel,  and  several  New 
York  capitalists  in  Washington.  Senator  Gwinn  pro 
posed  a  plan  to  show  the  world  that  the  St.  Joseph- 
San  Francisco  route  was  practical  throughout  the 
year. 

That  scheme  was  the  pony  express;  men  on  horse 
back  with  fresh  relays  every  ten  or  twelve  miles,  to 
carry  letters  at  top  speed  across  the  wilderness.  Con 
gress  had  pigeonholed  his  bill  to  finance  such  a  ven 
ture.  He  urged  now  that  private  capital  undertake 
it,  and  he  talked  so  convincingly  that  Russel  com- 


268          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

mitted  himself  to  enlist  his  partners  in  the  enterprise. 

Russel  went  back  to  Leavenworth,  Kansas,  the  head 
quarters  of  the  firm,  and  put  the  matter  up  to  Majors 
and  Waddel.  They  showe.d  him  in  a  very  few  minutes 
that  he  had  been  talked  into  a  sure  way  of  losing  several 
hundred  thousand  dollars.  But  he  reminded  them  that 
he  had  committed  himself  to  the  undertaking.  They 
said  that  settled  it;  they  would  stand  by  him  and  make 
his  word  good. 

Their  stage  line  had  stations  every  ten  or  twelve 
miles  as  far  as  Salt  Lake;  beyond  that  point  there 
was  not  a  single  building;  but  within  two  months 
from  the  day  when  Russel  had  that  talk  with  Senator 
Gwinn,  the  firm  had  completed  the  chain  of  those  sta 
tions  clear  to  Sacramento,  purchased  five  hundred 
half-breed  mustang  ponies  which  they  apportioned 
along  the  route,  hired  eighty  riders  and  what  stock- 
tenders  were  necessary,  and  hauled  feed  and  pro 
visions  out  across  the  intermountain  deserts.  They 
had  droves  of  mules  beating  down  trails  through  the 
deep  drifts  of  the  Sierras  and  the  Rockies. 

On  April  3,  1860,  Henry  Roff  swung  into  the  saddle 
at  Sacramento  and  Alexander  Carlyle  leaped  on  a 
brown  mare  in  St.  Joseph,  Missouri.  While  cannon 
boomed  and  crowds  cheered  in  those  two  remote  cities, 
the  ponies  came  toward  each  other  from  the  ends  of  that 
two-thousand-mile  trail  on  a  dead  run. 

At  the  end  of  ten  miles  or  so  a  relay  mount  was 
waiting  for  each  rider.  As  he  drew  near  the  station 
each  man  let  out  a  long  coyote  yell;  the  hostlers  led 
his  animal  into  the  roadway.  The  messenger  charged 
down  upon  them,  drew  rein,  sprang  to  the  earth,  and 


THE  OVERLAND  MAIL  269 

while  the  agent  lifted  the  pouches  from  one  saddle  to  the 
other — as  quickly  as  you  read  these  words  describing 
the  process — gained  the  back  of  his  fresh  horse  and 
sped  on.  At  the  end  of  his  section — the  length  of  these 
intervals  varied  from  seventy-five  to  a  hundred  and 
twenty-five  miles — each  rider  dismounted  for  the 
last  time  and  turned  the  pouches  over  to  a  successor. 

In  this  manner  the  mail  went  across  prairie  and 
sage-brush  plain,  through  mountain  passes  where  the 
snow  lay  deep  beside  the  beaten  trail  and  across  the 
wide  silent  reaches  of  the  Great  American  Desert. 
And  the  time  on  that  first  trip  was  ten  days  for  both 
east  and  west  bound  pouches. 

The  riders  were  light  of  weight;  they  were  allowed 
to  carry  no  weapons  save  a  bowie-knife  and  revolver; 
the  letters  were  written  on  tissue-paper ;  the  two  pouches 
were  fastened  to  a  leathern  covering  which  fitted  over 
the  saddle,  and  the  thing  was  lifted  with  one  move 
ment  from  the  last  horse  to  the  relay  animal.  When 
one  of  these  messengers  came  within  earshot  of  a  station 
he  always  raised  his  voice  in  the  long  shrill  coyote  yell, 
and  by  day  or  night,  as  that  signal  came  down  the  wind 
to  them,  the  men  who  were  on  duty  scrambled  to  get 
the  waiting  horse  into  its  place. 

Many  of  these  half-breed  mustangs  were  unbroken; 
some  were  famous  for  their  ability  at  bucking.  There 
is  a  man  in  my  town,  Joe  Hand — he  would  hate  to 
acknowledge  that  he  is  getting  on  in  years  even  now — 
who  used  to  ride  the  western  end,  and  he  said : 

' '  They  'd  hold  a  bad  horse  for  a  fellow  long  enough  to 
let  you  get  the  rowels  of  those  big  Mex  spurs  fastened 
in  the  hair  cinch.  Then  it  was  you  and  that  horse  for 


270         WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

it.  The  worst  of  it  was  that  the  pony  would  usually 
tire  himself  out  with  his  pitching,  and  you  'd  lose  time. 
I  remember  one  that  left  me  pretty  badly  stove  up  for 
a  while,  but  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  he  'd 
killed  himself  trying  to  pile  me." 

But  bad  horses  were  a  part  of  the  game ;  like  bad  men 
every  one  in  the  business  expected  them  and  took  them 
as  a  matter  of  course.  The  riders  of  the  pony  express 
hardly  recall  such  incidents  because  of  the  larger  ad 
ventures  with  which  their  lives  were  filled. 

There  was  the  ride  of  Jim  Moore,  for  a  long  time 
famous  among  the  exploits  on  the  frontier.  His  route 
went  from  Midway  station  to  old  Julesburg,  one  hundred 
and  forty  miles  across  the  great  plains  of  western 
Nebraska.  The  stations  were  from  ten  to  fourteen  miles 
apart.  Arriving  at  the  end  of  that  grueling  journey,  he 
would  rest  for  two  days  before  making  the  return  trip. 

One  day  Moore  started  westward  from  Midway  sta 
tion,  knowing  that  his  partner,  who  carried  the  mail 
one  way  while  he  was  taking  it  the  other,  was  sick  at 
Julesburg.  It  was  a  question  whether  the  man  would  be 
able  to  take  the  eastbound  pouches,  and  if  he  should 
not  be  there  was  no  substitute  on  hand. 

Realizing  what  might  lie  ahead  of  him,  Moore  pressed 
each  fresh  horse  to  its  utmost  speed  during  that  west 
ward  ride.  A  man  can  endure  only  so  long  a  term  of 
punishment,  and  he  resolved  to  save  himself  what 
minutes  he  could  at  the  very  beginning.  He  made  that 
one  hundred  and  forty  miles  in  eleven  hours. 

The  partner  was  in  bed,  and  there  was  no  hope  of  his 
rising  for  a  day  or  two.  The  weary  messenger  started 
toward  one  of  the  bunks  to  get  a  bit  of  rest,  but  before 


THE  OVERLAND  MAIL  271 

he  had  thrown  himself  on  the  blankets,  the  coyote  yell 
of  the  eastbound  rider  sounded  up  the  road. 

It  was  up  to  Moore  to  take  the  sick  man's  place  now. 
While  the  hostlers  were  saddling  a  pony  and  leading 
it  out  in  front  of  the  station,  he  snatched  some  cold 
meat  from  the  table,  gulped  down  a  cup  of  lukewarm 
coffee,  and  hurried  outside.  He  was  just  in  time  to 
swing  into  the  saddle.  He  clapped  spurs  to  the  pony 
and  kept  him  on  a  run.  So  with  each  succeeding  mount ; 
and  when  he  arrived  at  Midway  he  had  put  the  two 
hundred  and  eighty  miles  of  the  round  trip  behind  him 
in  twenty-two  hours. 

In  western  Nevada,  where  the  Paiute  Indians  were 
on  the  war-path,  several  of  the  stations  were  little  forts, 
and  riders  frequently  raced  for  their  lives  to  these 
adobe  sanctuaries.  Pony  Bob  Haslam  made  his  great 
three  hundred  and  eighty  mile  ride  across  this  section  of 
scorching  desert. 

He  rode  out  of  Virginia  City  one  day  while  the  in 
habitants  were  frantically  working  to  fortify  the  town 
against  war-parties  whose  signal-fires  were  blazing  at 
the  time  on  every  peak  for  a  hundred  miles. 

When  he  arrived  at  the  Carson  River,  sixty  miles 
away,  he  found  that  the  settlers  had  seized  all  the 
horses  at  the  station  for  use  in  the  campaign  against 
the  savages.  He  went  on  without  a  relay  down  the 
Carson  to  Fort  Churchill,  fifteen  miles  farther.  Here 
the  man  who  was  to  relieve  him  refused  to  take  the 
pouches. 

Within  ten  minutes  Haslam  was  in  the  saddle  again. 
He  rode  thirty-five  miles  to  the  Carson  sink;  got  a 
fresh  horse  and  made  the  next  thirty  miles,  without  a 


272          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

drop  of  water;  changed  at  Sand  Springs  and  again  at 
Cold  Springs;  and  after  one  hundred  and  ninety  miles 
in  the  saddle  turned  the  pouches  over  to  J.  G.  Kelley. 

Here,  at  Smith's  Creek,  Pony  Bob  got  nine  hours' 
rest.  Then  he  began  the  return  trip.  At  Cold  Springs 
he  found  the  station  a  smoking  shambles ;  the  keeper  and 
the  stock-tender  had  been  killed,  the  horses  driven  off  by 
Indians.  It  was  growing  dark.  He  rode  his  jaded 
animal  across  the  thirty-seven-mile  interval  to  Sand 
Springs,  got  a  remount,  and  pressed  on  to  the  sink  of 
the  Carson.  Afterward  it  was  found  that  during  the 
night  he  had  ridden  straight  through  a  ring  of  Indians 
who  were  headed  in  the  same  direction  in  which  he  was 
going.  From  the  sink  he  completed  his  round  trip  of 
three  hundred  and  eighty  miles  without  a  mishap,  arriv 
ing  at  the  end  within  four  hours  of  the  schedule  time. 

Nine  months  after  the  opening  of  the  line  the  Civil 
War  began,  and  the  pony  express  carried  the  news  of 
the  attack  on  Fort  Sumter  from  St.  Joseph  to  San 
Francisco  in  eight  days  and  fourteen  hours. 

Newspapers  and  business  men  had  awakened  to  the 
importance  of  this  quick  communication,  and  bonuses 
were  offered  for  the  delivery  of  important  news  ahead 
of  schedule.  President  Buchanan's  last  message  had 
heretofore  held  the  record  for  speedy  passage,  going 
over  the  route  in  seven  days  and  nineteen  hours.  But 
that  time  was  beaten  by  two  hours  in  the  carrying  of 
Lincoln's  inaugural  address.  Seven  days  and  seven 
teen  hours — the  world's  record  for  transmitting  mes 
sages  by  men  and  horses! 

The  firm  of  Russel,  Majors  &  Waddel  spent  $700,000 
on  the  pony  express  during  the  eighteen  months  of  its 


THE  OVERLAND  MAIL  273 

life;  they  took  in  something  less  than  $500,000.  But 
they  accomplished  what  they  had  set  out  to  do.  In 
1860  the  Butterfield  line  was  notified  to  transfer  its 
rolling-stock  to  the  west  end  of  the  northern  route; 
their  rivals  got  the  mail  contract  for  the  eastern  por 
tion. 

The  Wells-Butterfield  interests  were  on  the  under  side 
now.  The  change  to  the  new  route  involved  enormous 
expense;  and  with  the  withdrawal  of  troops  at  the 
beginning  of  the  Civil  War,  Apaches  and  Comanches 
plundered  the  disintegrating  line  of  stations.  The 
company  lasted  only  a  short  time  on  the  west  end  of  the 
overland  mail  and  retired.  Its  leaders  now  devoted 
their  energies  to  the  express  business. 

At  this  juncture  a  new  man  got  the  mail  contract. 
Ben  Holliday  was  his  name,  and  in  his  day  he  was 
known  as  a  Napoleon.  Perhaps  it  was  the  first  time  that 
term  was  used  in  connection  with  American  promoters. 
Holliday,  who  had  begun  as  a  small  storekeeper  in  a 
Missouri  village,  had  made  one  canny  turn  after  an 
other  until,  at  the  time  when  the  mail  came  to  the 
northern  route,  he  owned  several  steamship  lines  and 
large  freighting  interests  and  was  beginning  to  embark 
in  the  stage  business.  The  firm  of  Russel,  Majors  & 
Waddel  was  losing  money,  owing  in  part  to  bad  finan 
cial  management  and  in  part  to  the  courageous  venture 
of  the  pony  express.  Holliday  absorbed  their  property 
early  in  the  sixties.  He  was  the  transportation  mag 
nate  of  his  time,  the  first  American  to  force  a  merger  in 
that  industry. 

One  of  his  initial  steps  was  to  improve  the  operation 
of  the  stage  line.  Some  of  the  efficiency  methods  of 


274          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

his  subordinates  were  picturesque  to  say  the  least.  In 
Julesburg,  which  was  near  the  mouth  of  Lodge  Pole 
Creek  in  northeastern  Colorado,  the  agent  was  an  old 
Frenchman,  after  whom  the  place  had  been  named. 
This  Jules  had  been  feathering  his  own  nest  at  the  ex 
pense  of  the  company,  and  the  new  management  sup 
planted  him  with  one  Jack  Slade,  whose  record  up  to 
that  time  was  either  nineteen  or  twenty  killings.  Slade 
was  put  in  charge  at  Julesburg  with  instructions  to  clean 
up  his  division. 

While  the  new  superintendent  was  exterminating 
such  highway  robbers  and  horse-thieves  as  Jules  had 
gathered  about  him  in  this  section,  his  predecessor  was 
biding  in  the  little  settlement,  watching  for  a  chance  to 
play  even. 

One  day  Slade  came  into  the  general  store  near  the 
station,  and  the  Frenchman,  who  had  seen  a  good  oppor 
tunity  for  ambush  here,  fired  both  barrels  of  a  double- 
barreled  shotgun  into  his  body  at  a  range  of  about  fifty 
feet. 

Slade  took  to  his  bed.  But  he  was  made  of  the  stuff 
which  absorbs  much  lead  without  any  great  amount  of 
permanent  harm.  He  was  up  again  in  a  few  weeks. 
He  hunted  down  Jules,  who  had  taken  refuge  in  the 
Indian  country  to  the  north  on  hearing  of  his  recovery. 
He  brought  the  prisoner  back  to  Julesburg,  and  bound 
him  to  the  snubbing-post  in  the  middle  of  the  stage 
company's  corral. 

Accounts  of  what  followed  differ.  Some  authorities 
maintain  that  Slade  killed  Jules.  Others,  who  base 
their  assertions  on  the  statement  of  men  who  said  they 
were  eye-witnesses,  tell  how  Slade  enjoyed  himself  for 


THE  OVERLAND  MAIL  275 

some  time  filling  the  prisoner 's  clothing  with  bullet  holes 
and  then  exclaimed, 

' '  Hell !  You  ain  't  worth  the  lead  to  kill  you. ' '  And 
turned  the  victim  loose. 

But  all  narrators  agree  on  this ;  before  Slade  unbound 
the  living  Jules — or  the  dead  one,  whichever  it  may 
have  been — he  cut  off  the  prisoner's  ears  and  put  them 
in  his  pocket. 

It  may  be  noted  in  passing  that  this  truculent  effici 
ency  expert  went  wrong  in  after  years  and  wound  up 
his  days  at  the  end  of  a  rope  in  Virginia  City,  Montana. 

Ben  Holliday  carried  the  mails  overland  throughout 
the  early  sixties.  But  during  the  summer  of  1864  the 
Indians  of  the  plains,  for  the  first  time  in  their  history, 
made  a  coalition.  They  united  in  one  grand  war-party 
against  the  outposts  along  the  line,  and  for  a  distance  of 
four  hundred  miles  they  destroyed  stations,  murdered 
employees,  and  made  off  with  live  stock.  The  loss  to 
the  company  was  half  a  million  dollars. 

It  crippled  Holliday.  And  the  government  so  delayed 
consideration  of  his  claims  for  reimbursment  that  he  was 
glad  to  sell  the  property.  The  firm  of  Wells  Fargo, 
who  had  been  increasing  their  express  business  until 
they  virtually  monopolized  that  feature  of  common 
carrying  throughout  the  West  at  the  close  of  the  Civil 
War,  took  the  line  over.  Wells  Fargo!  It  was  the  old 
Wells  Butterfield  Co.  again.  The  first  winners  in  the 
struggle  were  the  last. 

The  railroad  came.  Men  said  that  the  day  of  adven 
ture  was  over.  But  this  adventure  has  not  ended  yet. 

While  this  story  was  being  written  another  pioneer 
died  on  that  overland  mail  route.  And  when  his  aero- 


276          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

plane  came  fluttering  down  out  of  a  driving  snowstorm 
to  crash,  in  a  mass  of  tangled  wreckage,  on  the  side  of 
Elk  Mountain,  Wyoming,  Lieutenant  E.  V.  Wales  went 
to  his  death  within  a  rifle-shot  of  the  road  where  so 
many  of  his  predecessors  gave  up  their  lives  trying- 
even  as  he  was  then  striving— to  quicken  communica 
tion  between  the  Atlantic  and  the  Pacific. 


BOOT-HILL 

BOOT-HILL !  Back  in  the  wild  old  days  you  found 
one  on  the  new  town's  outskirts  and  one  where  the 
cattle  trail  came  down  to  the  ford,  and  one  was  at  the 
summit  of  the  pass.  There  was  another  on  the  mesa 
overlooking  the  water-hole  where  the  wagon  outfits 
halted  after  the  long  dry  drive.  The  cow-boys  read  the 
faded  writing  on  the  wooden  headboards  and  from  the 
stories  made  long  ballads  which  they  sang  to  the  herds 
on  the  bedding  grounds.  The  herds  have  long  since 
vanished,  the  cow-boys  have  ridden  away  over  the  sky 
line,  the  plaintive  songs  are  slipping  from  the  memories 
of  a  few  old  men,  and  we  go  riding  by  the  places  where 
those  headboards  stood,  oblivious. 

Of  the  frontier  cemeteries  whose  dead  came  to  their 
ends,  shod  in  accordance  with  the  grim  phrase  of  their 
times,  there  remains  one  just  outside  the  town  of  Tomb 
stone  to  the  north.  Here  straggling  mesquite  bushes 
grow  on  the  summit  of  the  ridge;  cacti  and  ocatilla 
sprawl  over  the  sun-baked  earth  hiding  between  their 
thorny  stems  the  headboards  and  the  long  narrow  heaps 
of  stones  which  no  man  could  mistake.  Some  of  these 
headboards  still  bear  traces  of  black-lettered  epitaphs 
whicE  tell  how  death  came  to  strong  men  in  the  full 
flush  of  youth.  But  the  vast  majority  of  the  boulder 
heaps  are  marked  by  cedar  slabs  whose  penciled  leg 
ends  the  elements  have  long  since  washed  away. 

277 


278         WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

The  sun  shines  hot  here  on  the  summit  of  the  ridge. 
Across  the  wide  mesquite  flat  the  granite  ramparts  of 
the  Dragoons  frown  all  the  long  day,  and  the  bleak  hill 
graveyard  frowns  back  at  them.  Thus  the  men  who 
came  to  this  last  resting-place  frowned  back  at  Death. 

There  was  a  day  when  every  mining  camp  and  cow- 
town  from  the  Rio  Grande  to  the  Yellowstone  owned 
its  boot-hill;  a  day  when  lone  graves  marked  the  trails 
and  solitary  headboards  rotted  slowly  in  the  unpeopled 
wilderness.  Many  of  these  isolated  wooden  monuments 
fell  before  the  long  assaults  of  the  elements;  the  low 
mounds  vanished  and  the  grass  billowed  in  the  wind  hid 
ing  the  last  vestiges  of  the  leveled  sepulchers.  Some 
times  the  spot  was  favorable;  outfits  rested  there;  new 
headboards  rose  about  the  first  one;  for  the  road  was 
long  and  weary,  the  fords  were  perilous  from  quick 
sands  ;  thirst  lurked  in  the  desert,  and  the  Indians  were 
always  waiting.  The  <camp  became  a  settlement,  and  in 
the  days  of  its  infancy,  when  there  was  no  law  save  that 
of  might,  the  graveyard  spread  over  a  larger  area. 
There  came  an  era  when  a  member  of  that  stern  straight- 
shooting  breed  who  blazed  the  trails  for  the  coming  of 
the  statutes  wielded  the  powers  of  high  justice,  the  mid 
dle,  and  the  low.  Outlaw  and  rustler  opposed  the  dom 
inion  of  this  peace  officer.  Then  the  cemetery  boomed 
like  the  young  town.  Finally  things  settled  down  to 
jury  trials  and  men  let  lawyers  do  most  of  the  fighting 
with  forensics  instead  of  forty-fives.  Churches  were 
built  and  school-houses;  a  new  graveyard  was  estab 
lished  ;  brush  and  weeds  hid  the  old  one  '&  leaning  head 
boards.  Time  passed;  a  city  grew;  the  boot-hill  was 
forgotten. 


BOOT-HILL  279 

This  is  a  chronicle  of  men  whose  bones  lie  in  those 
vanished  boot-hills.  If  one  could  stand  aside  on  the 
day  of  judgment  and  watch  them  pass  when  the  brazen 
notes  of  the  last  trump  are  growing  fainter,  he  would 
witness  a  brave  procession.  But  we  at  least  can  mar 
shal  the  shadowy  host  from  fast  waning  memories  and, 
looking  upon  some  of  their  number,  recall  the  deeds  they 
did,  the  manner  of  their  dying. 

Here  then  they  come  through  the  curtain  of  time's 
mists,  Indian  fighter,  town  marshal,  faro-dealer,  and 
cow-boy.  There  are  a  few  among  them  upon  whom  it  is 
not  worth  while  to  gaze,  those  whose  lives  and  deaths 
were  unfit  for  recording;  there  are  a  vast  multitude 
whose  heroic  stories  were  never  told  and  never  will  be ; 
and  there  are  some  whose  deeds  as  they  have  come  down 
from  the  lips  of  the  old-timers  should  never  die. 

Thus  in  the  forefront  pass  lean  forms  clad  for  the 
most  part  in  garments  fringed  with  buckskin.  You  can 
see  where  some  have  torn  off  portions  of  the  fringes  to 
clean  their  rifles. 

Old-fashioned  long-barreled  muzzle-loaders,  these 
rifles;  and  powder-horns  hang  by  the  sides  of  the  bear 
ers.  They  are  long-haired  men;  and  their  faces  are 
deeply  burned  by  sun  and  wind,  one  hundred  and 
eighty-three  of  them;  and  where  they  died,  fighting  to 
the  last  against  four  thousand  of  Santa  Ana's  soldiers, 
rose  the  first  boot-hill.  That  was  in  San  Antonio,  Texas, 
at  the  building  called  the  Alamo ;  and  in  this  day,  when 
schoolboys  who  can  describe  Thermopylae  in  detail  know 
nothing  of  that  far  finer  stand,  it  will  do  no  harm  to 
dwell  on  a  proud  episode  ignored  by  most  text-book 
histories. 


280          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

On  the  fifth  day  of  March,  1836,  San  Antonio's  streets 
were  resonant  with  the  heavy  tread  of  marching  troops, 
the  clank  of  arms  and  the  rumble  of  moving  artillery. 
Four  thousand  Mexican  soldiers  were  being  concen 
trated  on  one  point,  a  little  mission  chapel  and  two  long 
adobe  buildings  which  formed  a  portion  of  a  walled  en 
closure,  the  Alamo. 

For  nearly  two  weeks  General  Santa  Ana  had  been 
tightening  the  cordon  of  cavalry,  infantry,  and  artil 
lery  about  the  place.  It  housed  one  hundred  and 
eighty-three  lank-haired  frontiersmen,  a  portion  of 
General  Sam  Houston's  band  who  had  declared  for 
Texan  independence.  The  Mexicans  had  cut  them  off 
from  water;  their  food  was  running  low.  On  this  day 
the  dark-skinned  commander  planned  to  take  the  square. 
His  men  had  managed  to  plant  a  cannon  two  hundred 
yards  away.  When  they  blew  down  the  walls  the  infan 
try  would  charge.  It  only  remained  for  them  to  load 
the  field-piece.  Bugles  sounded;  officers  galloped 
through  the  sheltered  streets  where  the  foot  soldiers 
were  held  in  waiting.  There  came  from  the  direction 
of  the  Alamo  the  steady  rat-tat-tat  of  rifles.  The  hours 
went  by  but  the  cannon  remained  silent. 

A  little  group  of  lean-faced  men  were  crouching  on 
the  flat  roof  of  the  large  out-building.  The  most  of  them 
were  clad  in  fringed  garments  of  buckskin;  here  and 
there  was  one  in  a  hickory  shirt  and  home-spun  jeans. 
Six  of  them,  some  bareheaded  and  some  with  hats  whose 
wide  rims  dropped  low  over  their  foreheads,  were  clus 
tered  about  old  Davy  Crockett,  frontiersman  and  in  his 
day  a  member  of  Congress.  Always  the  six  were  busy, 
with  ramrods,  powder-horns,  and  bullets,  loading  the 


BOOT-HILL  281 

long-barreled  eight-square  Kentucky  rifles.  The 
grizzled  marksman  took  the  cocked  weapons  from  their 
hands;  one  after  another,  he  pressed  each  walnut 
stock  to  his  shoulder,  lined  the  sights,  pulled  the  trigger, 
and  laid  the  discharged  piece  down,  to  pick  up  its  suc 
cessor. 

He  crouched  there  on  the  flat  roof  facing  the  Mexican 
cannon.  As  fast  as  men  came  to  load  it,  he  fired.  Some 
times  a  dozen  soldiers  rushed  upon  the  muzzle  of  the 
field-piece  surrounding  it.  At  such  moments  Davy 
Crockett's  arms  swept  back  and  forth  with  smooth 
unhurried  swiftness  and  his  sinewy  fingers  relaxed 
from  one  walnut  stock  only  to  clutch  another ;  his  hands 
were  never  empty.  Always  a  little  red  flame  licked  the 
smoke  fog  before  him  like  the  tongue  of  an  angered 
snake.  He  was  getting  on  in  years  but  in  all  his  full 
life  his  technic  had  never  been  so  perfect,  his  artistry 
of  death  so  flawless,  as  on  this  day  which  prefaced  the 
closing  of  his  chapter.  The  bodies  of  his  enemies 
clogged  the  space  about  their  cannon;  the  rivulets  of 
red  trickled  from  the  heap  across  the  roadway.  The 
long  hours  passed.  Darkness  came.  The  field-piece 
remained  silent. 

Long  before  daylight  the  next  morning  the  four 
thousand  were  marching  in  close  ranks  to  gather  for 
the  final  assault.  The  sun  had  not  risen  when  they 
made  the  charge.  The  infantry  came  first ;  the  cavalry 
closed  in  behind  them  driving  them  on  with  bared 
sabers.  The  Americans  took  such  toll  with  their  long- 
barreled  rifles  from  behind  the  barricaded  doors  and 
windows  that  the  foot-soldiers  turned  to  face  the  naked 
swords  rather  than  endure  that  fire.  The  officers  re- 


282          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

formed  them  under  cover;  they  swept  forward  again, 
and  again  fell  back.  Santa  Ana  directed  the  third 
charge  in  person.  They  swarmed  to  the  courtyard 
wall  and  raised  ladders  to  its  summit.  The  men  behind 
bore  those  before  them  onward  and  literally  shoved 
them  up  the  ladders1.  They  overwhelmed  the  frontiers 
men  through  sheer  force  of  numbers.  Colonel  W.  B. 
Travis  fell  fighting  hand  to  hand  here.  The  courtyard 
filled  with  dark-skinned  soldiers. 

The  Alamo  was  fallen.  But  there  remained  for  the 
lean  hard-bitten  men  of  Texas,  who  had  retired  within 
the  adobe  buildings,  the  task  of  dying  as  fighting 
men  should  die.  It  was  now  ten  o'clock,  nearly  six 
hours  since  the  beginning  of  the  first  advance.  It 
took  the  four  thousand  two  hours  more  to  finish  the 
thing. 

For  every  room  saw  its  separate  stand;  and  every 
stand  was  to  the  bitter  end. 

There  were  fourteen  gaunt  frontiersmen  in  the 
hospital,  so  weak  with  wounds  that  they  could  not 
drag  themselves  from  their  tattered  blankets.  They 
fought  with  rifles  and  pistols  until  forty  Mexicans 
lay  heaped  dead  about  the  doorway.  The  artillery 
brought  up  a  field-piece;  they  loaded  it  with  grape-shot 
and  swept  the  room,  and  then  at  last  they  crossed  the 
threshold. 

Colonel  James  Bowie,  who  brought  into  use  the 
knife  that  bears  his  name,  was  sick  within  another 
apartment.  How  that  day's  noises  of  combat  roused 
the  old  fire  within  his  breast  and  how  he  lay  there 
chafing  against  the  weakness  which  would  not  let  him 
raise  his  body,  one  can  well  imagine.  A  dozen  Mex- 


BOOT-HILL  283 

lean  officers  rushed  into  the  place,  firing  as  they  came. 
Colonel  Bowie  waited  until  the  first  of  them  was 
within  arm's  length.  Then  he  reached  forth,  seized 
the  man  by  the  hair  and,  dying,  plunged  the  knife  that 
bore  his  name  hilt-deep  into  the  heart  of  his  enemy. 

So  they  passed  in  stifling  clouds  of  powder  smoke 
with  the  reek  of  hot  blood  in  their  nostrils.  The  noon 
hour  saw  Davy  Crockett  and  five  or  six  companions 
standing  in  a  corner  of  the  shattered  walls;  the  old 
frontiersman  held  a  rifle  in  one  hand,  in  the  other  a 
dripping  knife,  and  his  buckskin  garments  were  sod 
den,  crimson.  That  is  the  last  of  the  picture. 

( l  Thermopylae  had  its  messenger  of  defeat.  The 
Alamo  had  none."  So  reads  the  inscription  on  the 
monument  erected  in  latter  years  by  the  State  of 
Texas  to  commemorate  that  stand.  The  words  are 
true.  But  the  Alamo  did  leave  a  memory  and  the 
tale  of  the  little  band  who  fought  in  the  sublimity  of 
their  fierceness  while  death  was  slowing  their  pulses 
did  much  toward  the  development  of  a  breed  whose 
eyes  were  narrow,  sometimes  slightly  slanting,  from 
constant  peering  across  rifle  sights  under  a  glaring- 
sun. 

The  procession  is  passing;  trapper  and  Indian 
fighter;  teamsters  with  dust  in  the  deep  lines  of  their 
faces — dust  from  the  long  dry  trail  to  old  Santa  Fe; 
stage-drivers  who  have  been  sleeping  the  long  sleep 
under  waving  wheat-fields  where  alkali  flats  once 
stretched  away  toward  the  vague  blue  mountains;  and 
riders  of  the  pony  express.  A  tall  form  emerges 
from  the  past's  dim  background,  and  comes  on  among 
them. 


284          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

Six  feet  and  an  inch  to  spare,  modeled  as  finely  as  an 
old  Greek  statue,  with  eyes  of  steel  grey,  sweeping 
mustache  and  dark  brown  hair  that  hangs  to  his 
shoulders,  he  moves  with  catlike  grace.  Two  forty- 
fives  hang  by  his  narrow  hips;  there  is  a  hint  of  the 
cavalier  in  his  dropping  sombrero  and  his  ornately 
patterned  boots.  This  is  Wild  Bill  Hickok;  he  was 
to  have  gone  with  Custer,  but  a  coward 's  bullet  cheated 
him  out  of  the  chance  to  die  fighting  by  the  Little  Big 
Horn  and  they  buried  him  in  the  Black  Hills  in  the 
spring  of  1876. 

James  B.  Hickok  was  the  name  by  which  men  called 
him  until  one  December  day  in  the  early  sixties  when 
the  McCandless  gang  of  outlaws  tried  to  drive  the 
horses  off  from  the  Rock  Creek  station  of  the  Over 
land  Stage  on  the  plains  of  southwestern  Nebraska 
near  the  Kansas  boundary. 

There  were  ten  of  the  desperadoes,  and  Hickok,  who 
was  scarcely  more  than  a  boy  then,  was  alone  in  the 
little  sod  house,  for  Doc  Brinck,  his  partner,  was  off 
hunting  that  afternoon.  He  watched  their  approach 
from  the  lonely  cubicle  where  he  and  Brinck  passed 
their  days  as  station-keepers.  They  rode  up  through 
the  cottonwoods  by  the  creek.  Bill  McCandless  leaped 
from  the  saddle  and  swaggered  to  the  corral  bars. 

' '  The  first  man  lays  a  hand  on  those  bars,  I  '11  shoot, ' ' 
Hickok  called.  They  answered  his  warning  with  a 
volley,  and  their  leader  laughed  as  he  dragged  the  top 
most  railing  from  its  place.  Laughing  he  died. 

Now  the  rifles  of  the  others  rained  lead  against 
the  sod  walls  and  slugs  buzzed  like  angry  wasps  through 
the  window.  He  killed  one  more  by  the  corral  and  a 


BOOT-HILL  285 

third  who  had  crept  up  behind  the  wooden  well-curb. 
The  seven  who  were  left  retired  to  the  cottonwoods  to 
hold  council.  They  determined  to  rush  the  building 
and  batter  down  the  door. 

When  they  came  forth  bearing  a  dead  tree-trunk 
between  them,  he  got  two  more  of  them.  And  then 
the  timber  crashed  against  the  flimsy  door;  the 
rended  boards  flew  across  the  room;  the  sod  walls 
trembled  to  the  shock.  He  dropped  his  rifle  and  drew 
his  revolver  as  he  leaped  to  meet  them. 

Jim  McCandless  and  another  pitched  forward  across 
the  threshold  with  leveled  shotguns  at  their  shoulders. 
Young  Hickok  ducked  under  the  muzzle  of  the  neai-est 
weapon,  and  its  flame  seared  his  long  hair  as  he  swung 
for  the  bearer's  mid-section  with  all  the  weight  of  his 
body  behind  the  blow.  Whirling  with  the  swiftness  of 
a  fighting  cat  he  spurned  the  senseless  outlaw  with  his 
boot  and  "threw  down"  on  McCandless.  Revolver  and 
shotgun  flamed  in  the  same  instant;  McCandless  fell 
dead;  Hickok  staggered  back  with  eleven  buckshot  in 
his  body. 

The  other  three  were  on  him  before  he  recovered  his 
balance.  He  felt  the  scarring  of  their  bowie-knives 
against  his  ribs  as  they  bore  him  down  on  the  bed. 
Fingers  closed  in  on  his  windpipe.  He  seized  the  arm 
in  his  two  hands  and  twisted  it,  as  one  would  twist 
a  stick,  until  the  bones  snapped.  He  struggled  to  his 
feet,  and  the  warm  blood  bathed  his  limbs  as  he  hurled 
the  two  who  were  left  across  the  room. 

They  came  on  crouching  and  their  knives  gleamed 
through  the  thick  smoke-clouds.  His  own  bowie-knife 
was  in  his  hand  now,  and  he  stabbed  the  foremost 


286         WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

through  the  throat.  The  other  fled.  Hickok  stumbled 
out  through  the  door  after  him,  and  Doc  Brinck  came 
riding  back  from  his  hunting  expedition  in  time  to  lend 
his  rifle  to  his  partner,  who  insisted  profanely  that  he 
was  fit  to  finish  what  he  had  so  well  begun. 

So  young  James  Hickok  shut  his  teeth  against  the 
weakness  which  was  creeping  over  him  and  lined  his 
sights  on  the  last  of  his  enemies ;  for  the  man  whom  he 
had  felled  with  his  fist  and  he  with  the  broken  arm 
had  escaped  some  time  during  the  latter  progress  of 
the  fight.  That  final  shot  was  not  so  true  as  its  prede 
cessors;  the  outlaw  did  not  die  until  several  days  later 
in  the  little  town  of  Manhattan,  Kansas. 

When  the  eastbound  stage  pulled  up  that  afternoon 
the  driver  and  passengers  found  the  long-haired  young 
station-keeper  in  a  deep  swoon,  with  eleven  buckshot 
and  thirteen  knife  wounds  in  his  body.  They  took  him 
aboard  and  carried  him  to  Manhattan  where  he  recov 
ered  six  months  later,  to  find  himself  known  through 
out  the  West  as  Wild  Bill  Hickok. 

How  many  men  he  killed  is  a  mooted  question.  But 
it  is  universally  acknowledged  that  he  slew  them  all 
fairly.  Owning  that  prestige  whose  possessor  walks 
amid  unseen  dangers,  he  introduced  the  quick  draw  on 
his  portion  of  frontier;  and  many  who  sought  his  life 
for  the  sake  of  the  dark  fame  which  the  deed  would 
bring  them  died  with  their  weapons  in  their  hands. 

In  Abilene,  Kansas,  where  he  was  for  several  years 
town  marshal,  one  of  these  caught  him  unawares  as  he 
was  rounding  a  corner.  Wild  Bill  complied  with  the 
order  to  throw  up  his  hands  and  stood,  rigid,  expres- 


BOOT-HILL  287 

sionless,  while  the  desperado,  emulating  the  plains  In 
dians,  tried  to  torture  him  by  picturing  the  closeness 
of  his  end.  He  was  in  the  midst  of  his  description  when 
Hickok's  eyes  widened  and  his  voice  was  thick  with 
seeming  horror  as  he  cried, 

1 1  My  God !  Don 't  kill  him  from  behind ! "  The  out 
law  allowed  his  eyes  to  waver  and  he  fell  with  a  bullet- 
hole  in  his  forehead. 

As  stage-driver,  Indian  fighter,  and  peace  officer  Wild 
Bill  Hickok  did  a  man 's  work  in  cleaning  up  the  border. 
He  was  about  to  go  and  join  the  Ouster  expedition  as 
a  scout  when  one  who  thought  the  murder  would  give 
him  renown  shot  him  from  behind  as  he  was  sitting  in 
at  a  poker  game  in  Deadwood.  He  died  drawing  his 
two  guns,  and  the  whole  West  mourned  his  passing.  It 
had  never  known  a  braver  spirit. 

The  silent  ranks  grow  thicker :  young  men,  sunburned 
and  booted  for  the  saddle;  the  restless  souls  who  for 
sook  tame  Eastern  farm-lands,  lured  by  the  West's 
promise  of  adventure,  and  received  the  supreme  fulfil 
ment  of  that  promise;  the  finest  of  the  South 's  manhood 
drawn  toward  the  setting  sun  to  seek  new  homes.  They 
come  from  a  hundred  boot-hills,  from  hundreds  of  sol 
itary  graves;  from  the  banks  of  the  Yellowstone,  the 
Platte,  the  Arkansas,  and  the  two  forks  of  the  Can 
adian. 

There  are  so  many  among  them  who  died  exalted 
that  the  tongue  would  weary  reciting  the  tales.  This 
tattered  group  were  with  the  fifty  who  drove  off  fifteen 
hundred  Cheyennes  and  Kiowas  on  Beecher  Island. 
The  Battle  of  the  Arickaree  was  the  name  men  gave  the 


288          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

stand;  and  the  sands  of  the  north  fork  of  the  Republi 
can  were  red  with  the  blood  of  the  Indians  slain  by 
For sy the  and  his  half  hundred  when  night  fell. 

These  three  who  follow  in  boots,  jean  breeches,  and 
Oregon  shirts  are  Billy  Tyler  and  the  Shadier  brothers, 
members  of  that  company  of  twenty-eight  buffalo 
hunters  who  made  the  big  fight  at  Adobe  Walls.  The 
sun  was  just  rising  when  Quanah  Parker,  Little  Robe, 
and  White  Shield  led  more  than  eight  hundred  Com- 
anches  and  Kiowas  in  the  first  charge  upon  the  four 
buildings  which  stood  at  the  edge  of  the  Llano  Estacado, 
one  hundred  and  fifty  miles  from  the  nearest  settlement, 
The  Shadier  boys  were  slain  in  their  wagon  at  that 
onslaught.  Tyler  was  shot  down  at  midday  as  he  ven 
tured  forth  from  Myers  &  Leonard's  store.  Before  the 
afternoon  was  over  the  Indians  sickened  of  their  losses 
and  drew  off  beyond  range  of  the  big-caliber  Sharp's 
rifles.  They  massacred  one  hundred  and  ninety  people 
during  their  three  months'  raiding  but  the  handful  be 
hind  the  barricaded  doors  and  windows  was  too  much 
for  them. 

Private  George  W.  Smith  of  the  Sixth  Cavalry  is 
passing  now.  You  would  need  to  look  a  second  time  to 
notice  that  he  was  a  soldier,  for  the  rifle  under  his  arm 
is  a  long-barreled  Sharp's  single  shot  and  he  has  put 
aside  much  of  the  old  blue  uniform  for  the  ordinary 
Western  raiment.  That  was  the  way  of  scouting  ex 
peditions,  and  he,  with  his  five  companions,  was  on  the 
road  from  McClellan's  Creek  to  Fort  Supply  when  they 
met  two  hundred  Indians  on  that  September  morning  of 
1874. 

Up  near  the  northeast  corner  of  the  Texas  Panhandle, 


BOOT-HILL  289 

where  the  land  rises  to  a  divide  between  Gageby's  Creek 
and  the  Washita  River,  the  five  survivors  dug  his 
grave  with  butcher-knives.  They  pulled  down  the 
banks  of  a  buffalo  wallow  over  his  body  in  the  darkness 
of  the  night ;  and  they  left  him  in  this  shallow  sepulcher, 
unmarked  by  stone  or  headboard.  There  his  bones  lie 
to  this  day,  and  no  man  knows  when  he  is  passing  over 
them. 

The  six  of  them  had  left  General  Miles 's  command 
two  days  before.  At  dawn  on  September  13,  they  were 
riding  northward  up  the  long  open  slope:  Billy  Dixon 
and  Amos  Chapman,  two  buffalo  hunters  serving  as 
scouts,  and  the  four  troopers,  Sergeant  Z.  T.  Woodhull, 
Privates  Peter  Rath,  John  Harrington,  and  George  W. 
Smith.  You  could  hardly  tell  the  soldiers  from  the 
plainsmen,  had  you  seen  them;  a  sombreroed  group, 
booted  to  the  knees  and  in  their  shirt-sleeves;  all  bore 
the  heavy,  fifty-caliber  Sharp's  single-shot  rifles  across 
their  saddle-horns. 

The  bare  land  rolled  away  and  away,  dark  velvet- 
brown  toward  the  flushing  east.  The  sky  was  vivid 
crimson  when  they  turned  their  horses  up  a  little  knoll. 
They  reached  its  summit  just  as  the  sun  was  rising. 
Here  they  drew  rein.  Two  hundred  Comanches  and 
Kiowas  were  riding  toward  them  at  the  bottom  of  the 
hill ;  the  landscape  had  tricked  them  into  ambush. 

There  passed  an  instant  during  which  astonishment 
held  both  parties  motionless :  the  white  men  on  the  crest, 
unshaven,  sunburned,  their  soiled  sombreros  drooping 
over  their  narrowed  eyes;  and  at  the  slope's  foot  the 
ranks  of  half-naked  braves  all  decked  out  in  the  war 
path's  gaudy  panoply.  Their  lean  torsos  gleamed  under 


290          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

the  rays  of  the  rising  sun  like  old  copper;  patches  of 
ocher  and  vermilion  stood  out  in  vivid  contrast  against 
the  dusky  skins;  feathered  war-bonnets  and  dyed  scalp- 
locks  fluttered,  gay  bits  of  color  in  the  morning  breeze. 
The  instant  passed ;  the  white  men  flung  themselves  from 
their  saddles;  the  red  men  deployed  forming  a  wide 
circle  about  them.  A  ululating  yell,  so  fierce  in  its  ex 
ultation  that  the  cavalry  horses  pulled  back  upon  their 
bridles  in  a  frenzy  of  fear,  broke  the  silence.  Then  the 
booming  of  the  long  Sharp's  fifties  on  the  summit 
mingled  with  the  rattle  of  Springfields  and  needle-guns 
on  the  hill's  flank. 

Now,  while  the  bullets  threw  the  dust  from  the  dry 
sod  into  their  faces,  five  of  the  six  dropped  on  their 
bellies  in  a  ring.  And  by  the  sergeant's  orders  Private 
George  Smith  took  charge  of  the  panic-stricken  horses. 
Perhaps  that  task  fell  to  him  because  he  was  the  poorest 
shot,  perhaps  it  was  because  he  had  the  least  experience ; 
but  it  was  a  man's  job.  He  stood  upright  clinging  to 
the  tie-ropes,  trying  to  soothe  the  plunging  animals ;  and 
he  became  the  target  for  a  hundred  of  those  rifles  which 
were  clattering  along  the  hillside  below  him.  For  every 
warrior  in  the  band  knew  that  the  first  bullet  that  found 
its  mark  in  his  body  would  send  the  horses  stampeding 
down  the  slope ;  and  to  put  his  foes  afoot  was  the  initial 
purpose  of  the  plains  Indian  when  he  went  into  battle. 

So  Private  Smith  clinched  his  teeth  and  did  his  best, 
while  the  deep-toned  buffalo-guns  roared  and  the  rifles 
of  the  savages  answered  in  a  never-ending  volley  all 
around  him.  The  leaden  slugs  droned  past  his  ears  as 
thick  as  swarming  bees;  the  plunging  hoofs  showed 


BOOT-HILL  291 

through  the  brown  dust-clouds,  and  his  arms  ached  from 
the  strain  of  the  tie-ropes. 

Billy  Dixon  had  thrown  away  his  wide-rimmed 
sombrero  and  his  long  hair  rippled  in  the  wind.  He 
had  been  through  the  battle  at  Adobe  Walls  and  men 
knew  him  for  one  of  the  best  shots  in  the  country  south 
of  the  Arkansas  River.  He  was  taking  it  slowly,  lining 
his  sights  with  the  coolness  of  an  old  hand  on  a  target- 
range.  Now  he  raised  his  head. 

"Here  they  come,"  he  shouted. 

The  circle  was  drawing  inward  where  the  land  sloped 
up  at  the  easiest  angle.  A  hundred  half -naked  riders 
swung  toward  the  summit,  and  the  thud-thud  of  the 
ponies'  little  hoofs  was  audible  through  the  rattle  of  the 
rifles.  The  buffalo-guns  boomed  in  slow  succession  like 
the  strokes  of  a  tolling  bell.  Empty  saddles  began  to 
show  in  the  forefront.  The  charge  swerved  off,  and  as 
it  passed  at  point-blank  range  a  curtain  of  powder  smoke 
unrolled  along  the  whole  flank. 

Private  George  Smith  pitched  forward  on  his  face. 
His  rifle  flew  far  from  him.  He  lay  there  motionless. 
A  trooper  binding  his  wounded  thigh  glanced  around 
when  the  assault  had  become  a  swift  retreat. 

1 '  Look ! "  he  cried.     ' '  They  Ve  got  Smith. ' ' 

"Set  us  afoot,"  another  growled  and  pointed  after  the 
stampeded  horses. 

Smith  lay  quite  still  as  he  had  fallen.  They  thought 
him  dead.  Within  the  hour,  a  dozen  whooping 
Comanches  ran  their  ponies  up  the  hill  toward  his  limp 
form.  To  gain  that  scalp-lock  under  fire  would  be  an 
exploit  worth  telling  to  their  grandchildren  in  after 


292          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

years.  And  there  was  the  long-barreled  rifle  as  a  bit 
of  plunder.  But  the  five  white  men,  who  had  changed 
their  position  under  a  second  charge,  emptied  four  sad 
dles  before  the  warriors  were  within  a  hundred  yards  of 
the  spot,  and  the  eight  survivors  whipped  their  ponies 
down  the  slope  again. 

The  sun  was  climbing  high  when  Amos  Chapman 
rolled  over  on  his  side  and  called  to  Billy  Dixon  that 
his  leg  was  broken.  Dixon  lifted  his  head  and  surveyed 
the  situation.  The  Indians  were  gathering  for  another 
rush.  Thus  far  they  had  taken  things  as  though  they 
were  so  sure  of  the  ultimate  result  that  they  did  not  see 
fit  to  run  great  chances.  But  this  could  not  last.  The 
next  charge  might  be  the  final  one.  Down  on  a  little 
mesquite  flat  about  two  hundred  yards  distant,  he  saw 
a  buffalo  wallow.  He  pointed  to  it. 

"We  got  to  make  it,"  he  told  the  others,  and  they 
followed  him  as  he  ran  for  the  shelter.  But  Amos 
Chapman  crawled  only  a  dozen  paces  or  so  before  he  had 
to  give  it  up.  The  four  fell  to  work  with  their  butcher- 
knives  heaping  up  the  sand  at  the  summit  of  the  low 
bank  which  surrounded  the  shallow  circular  depression. 
They  dropped  their  knives  and  picked  up  their  rifles, 
for  the  savages  were  sweeping  down  upon  them. 

So  they  dug  and  fought  and  fought  and  dug  for  an 
other  hour  and  then  Billy  Dixon  was  unable  to  stand  the 
sight  of  his  partner  lying  helpless  on  the  summit  of  the 
knoll. 

"I  'm  going  to  get  Amos,"  he  announced,  and  set 
forth  amid  a  rain  of  bullets.  Those  who  saw  him  after 
the  fight  was  over — and  General  Miles  was  among  them 
— said  that  his  shirt  was  ripped  in  twenty  places  by  fly- 


BOOT-HILL  293 

ing  lead.  He  halted  on  the  hilltop  and  took  up  Chap 
man  pick-a-back,  then  bore  him  slowly  down  the  slope  to 
the  little  shelter. 

Noon  came  on.  The  sun  shone  hot.  Dixon  had  got  a 
bullet  in  the  calf  of  his  leg  when  he  was  bearing  his 
companion  on  his  back.  Private  Rath  was  the  only  man 
who  was  not  wounded.  They  all  thirsted  as  only  men 
can  thirst  who  have  been  keyed  up  to  the  high  pitch  of  en 
deavor  for  hours.  The  savages  charged  thrice  more; 
and  when  they  came,  numbers  of  them  always  deployed 
toward  the  top  of  the  knoll  where  Private  Smith  lay 
dying:  dead  his  companions  thought,  but  they  were 
grim  in  their  determination  that  the  red  men  should 
never  get  the  scalp  which  they  coveted  so  sorely.  The 
big  Sharps  boomed ;  the  saddles  emptied  to  their  boom 
ing.  Private  Smith  wakened  from  one  swoon  only  to 
fall  into  another.  Sometimes  he  wakened  to  the  thud- 
ing  of  hoofs  and  saw  the  savages  sweeping  toward  him 
on  their  ponies. 

Near  mid-afternoon  the  warriors  formed  for  a  charge 
and  it  was  evident  from  the  manner  of  their  massing 
that  they  were  going  to  ride  down  on  the  buffalo  wallow 
in  one  solid  body.  But  while  their  ranks  were  gathering 
there  came  up  one  of  those  sudden  thunderstorms  for 
which  the  Staked  Plains  were  famous.  The  rain  fell 
in  sheets;  the  lightning  blazed  with  scarcely  an  inter 
mission  between  flashes.  And  the  charge  was  given  up 
for  the  time  being.  The  braves  drew  off  beyond  rifle 
shot  and  huddled  up  within  their  blankets. 

Morris  Rath  seized  the  respite  to  go  for  ammunition. 
For  Smith's  cartridge-belts  were  full.  He  came  buck 
from  the  knoll  breathless. 


294          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

'  '  Smith  's  living, ' '  he  cried. 

"Come  on,"  Billy  Dixon  bade  him  and  the  two  went 
back  to  the  summit. 

' '  I  can  walk  if  you  two  hold  me  up, ' '  Private  George 
iSmith  whispered.  A  bullet  had  passed  through  his 
lungs  and  when  he  breathed  the  air  whistled  from  a  hole 
beneath  his  shoulder-blade.  They  supported  him  on 
either  side  and  half -carried  him  to  the  buffalo  wallow. 

The  thunder-shower  had  passed.  Another  was  com 
ing  fast.  The  Indians  were  gathering  to  take  advantage 
of  the  brief  interval.  The  agony  which  had  come  from 
rough  motion  was  keeping  Smith  from  swooning  now. 
He  saw  his  companions  preparing  to  stand  off  the  as 
sault.  Amos  Chapman  was  holding  himself  upright  by 
bracing  his  body  against  the  side  of  the  wallow.  Pri 
vate  Smith  whispered  to  the  others, 

"Set  me  up  like  Chapman.  They  '11  think  there  "s 
more  of  us  fit  to  shoot  that  way."  And  they  did  as  he 
had  asked  them. 

So  he  held  his  body  erect  while  the  life  was  ebbing 
from  it ;  and  the  rain  came  down  again  in  sheets.  The 
Indians  fell  back  before  the  charge  was  well  begun.  It 
was  their  last  attempt. 

The  wind  rose,  biting  raw.  The  savages  melted  away 
as  dusk  drew  down  over  the  brown  land.  Some  one 
looked  at  Smith.  His  head  was  sunk  and  he  was  moan 
ing  with  pain.  They  found  a  willow  switch  and 
tamped  a  handkerchief  into  the  wound.  And  then  they 
laid  him  down  in  the  rain-water  which  had  gathered  in 
the  wallow.  His  blood  and  the  blood  of  the  others 
turned  that  water  a  dull  red. 

Some  time  near  midnight  he  died.    And  several  days 


BOOT-HILL  295 

later,  when  General  Miles 's  troops  came  to  rescue  them, 
the  five  others  buried  his  body.  It  was  night-time.  The 
fires  of  the  troopers  glowed  down  at  the  foot  of  the 
slope.  They  made  the  grave  with  their  butcher-knives 
by  pulling  down  the  sand  from  the  wallow's  side  upon 
the  body.  And  then  they  went  to  the  camp-fires  of  the 
soldiers. 

They  are  passing  from  bleak  graveyards  on  the 
alkali  flats  and  in  the  northern  mountains  where  the 
sage-brush  meets  the  pines:  gaunt  men  in  laced  boots 
and  faded  blue  overalls  who  traveled  once  too  often 
through  the  desert's  mirage  searching  for  the  golden 
ledges;  big-boned  hard  rock  men  who  died  in  under  ^ 
ground  passages  where  the  steel  was  battering  the  living 
granite ;  men  with  soft  hands  and  cold  eyes  who  fattened 
on  the  fruits  of  robbery  and  murder. 

This  swarthy  black-haired  one  in  the  soft  silk  shirt 
and  spotless  raiment  of  the  gambler  is  Cherokee  Bob, 
who  killed  and  plundered  unchallenged  throughout  east 
ern  "Washington  and  Idaho  during  the  early  sixties ;  un 
til  the  camp  of  Florence  celebrated  its  third  New  Year's 
Eve  with  a  ball  in  which  respectability  held  sway,  and 
he  took  his  consort  thither  to  mingle  with  the  wives  of 
others.  Then  he  kindled  a  flame  of  resentment  which 
his  blackest  murders  had  failed  to  rouse.  The  next 
morning  the  entire  camp  turned  out  to  drive  him  forth 
together  with  Bill  Willoughby,  his  partner.  The  two 
retreated  slowly,  from  building  to  building,  facing  the 
mob.  Shotguns  bellowed;  rifle-bullets  sang  about  their 
ears,  and  they  answered  with  their  revolvers,  until  death 
left  their  trigger  fingers  limp. 


296          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

Here  comes  one  with  catlike  tread,  slender  and  with  a 
dignity  of  presence  which  proclaims  the  gentleman. 
But  when  you  glance  at  the  lean  immobile  face,  there  is 
that  in  the  pale  eyes  which  checks  your  blood;  their 
gray  is  like  the  gray  of  old  ice  late  in  the  winter-time. 
This  is  Henry  Plummer.  Behind  him  troop  thirty 
others,  bearded  men,  and  the  evil  of  their  deeds  is  plainly 
written  on  their  features;  the  members  of  his  band  who 
slew  for  gold,  leaving  the  dead  to  mark  their  trail 
through  Washington,  Oregon,  Idaho,  and  Montana.  In 
Alder  Gulch  their  leader  was  elected  sheriff  and  planned 
their  murders  for  them  while  he  held  the  office.  Finally 
such  men  as  Sam  Hauser,  N.  P.  Langford,  J.  X.  Beidler, 
and  Colonel  W.  F.  Saunders  took  their  lives  in  their 
hands  and  organized  a  vigilance  committee  at  Virginia 
City.  They  got  their  evidence;  and  in  January,  1864, 
they  lynched  the  sheriff  and  his  thirty,  whose  deeds 
would  make  a  long  story  were  they  worthy  of  a  place 
within  this  chronicle.  But  the  mining  camps  never  pro 
duced  the  type  of  desperado  who  was  willing  to  take  his 
share  of  chances  in  a  shooting  affair ;  excepting  when  the 
cattle  country  was  close  by.  The  bad  man  who  could 
command  a  measure  of  admiration  always  was  a  horse 
man. 

Here  pass  those  who  died  boldly  in  the  glaring  lands 
by  the  Arizona  border:  a  multitude  of  sunburned  men 
with  revolvers  swinging  low  beside  their  hips  and  in 
their  hands  the  deadly  Winchesters.  One  comes  among 
them,  rugged  of  frame,  big-featured,  red  from  weather 
and  the  fulness  of  his  blood.  There  is,  in  the  poise  of  his 
head  and  in  his  eyes,  a  fierce  intolerance.  This  is  Joe 
Phy.  More  than  forty  years  have  passed  since  they 


BOOT-HILL  297 

buried  him  in  the  little  boot-hill  at  Florence,  Arizona. 
To-day  the  town  is  as  conventional  as  any  Eastern  vil 
lage,  but  it  saw  a  time  when  men  lived  up  to  the  rude 
clean  code  of  our  American  age  of  chivalry.  During 
that  era  Joe  Phy  met  his  end  with  a  grimness  befitting  a 
son  of  the  Old  West. 

Florence  was  the  county-seat  and  Pete  Gabriel  was 
sheriff.  He  was  a  handsome  man  with  his  twisted 
mustache  and  Napoleon  goatee,  free-handed  with  his 
money,  widely  liked.  Moreover  he  was  a  wonderful  shot 
with  his  rifle  and  deadly  quick  with  a  single-action 
revolver.  Among  the  gun-fighters  of  southern  Arizona 
none  was  better  known  than  he,  and  Joe  Phy  was  his 
deputy. 

The  county  of  Pinal  extended  from  the  glaring  flats 
below  the  Gila  northward  beyond  the  Superstition  Moun 
tains,  a  savage  land  where  the  sun  was  killing  hot  in 
summer-time,  where  forests  of  giant  cacti  stretched  for 
miles  like  the  pine  woods  that  cloaked  the  highter  pla 
teaus.  Phy  and  Gabriel  rode  together  through  the  coun 
try  on  many  a  bold  errand;  they  shared  their  blankets 
and  the  hardships  of  dry  camps ;  they  fought  beside  each 
other  while  the  bullets  of  wanted  men  snarled,  ricochet- 
ting  from  the  rocks  about  them. 

Then  politics  brought  a  rift  in  their  friendship  and 
the  day  came  when  the  deputy  ran  for  office  against  his 
former  chief.  The  campaign  was  made  bitter  by 
accusations.  There  was,  men  said,  a  court-house  ring ; 
the  big  companies  were  dodging  taxes,  the  small  ranch 
ers  were  getting  the  worst  of  it.  Election  came  and 
the  rancor  of  the  reformers  grew  hotter  when  the  count 
showed  that  Gabriel  had  won.  Many  openly  proclaimed 


298          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

that  the  court-house  crowd  had  juggled  with  the  ballots, 
and  Phy  was  among  these.  When  a  contest  was  insti 
tuted  and  the  result  of  the  election  was  carried  to  the 
courts,  he  grew  to  hate  Gabriel.  The  hatred  flamed 
within  him  until  he  could  stand  it  no  longer  and  one 
night  he  hunted  the  town  over  until  he  found  the  sheriff 
in  Keating 's  saloon. 

"Pete,"  he  said,  "I  'm  going  home  after  my  six- 
shooter  and  I  'm  coming  back  to  fight  it  out  with  you. 
Get  ready  while  I  'm  gone." 

And  Gabriel  answered  quietly,  "All  right,  Joe.  I'll 
be  here  when  you  come  back." 

The  swinging  doors  closed  behind  Phy's  back  and  the 
sheriff  turned  to  the  man  behind  the  bar. 

"Call  'em  up,"  he  said.  "This  is  on  me."  He  or 
dered  whisky  and  those  who  lined  up  beside  him  kept 
looking  toward  the  street  entrance;  but  he  remained 
with  his  back  to  the  swinging  doors.  The  minutes 
passed;  the  doors  flew  open.  Within  the  threshold  Joe 
Phy  halted. 

* '  Commence ! "  he  shouted  and  flung  an  oath  after  the 
word.  *  *  Commence ! ' ' 

Pete  Gabriel  turned,  and  his  revolver  flew  from  its 
holster  spitting  fire.  Phy's  forty -five  ejected  a  thin 
stream  of  orange  flame.  The  voices  of  the  weapons 
mingled  in  one  loud  explosion.  The  two  men  took  a 
pace  toward  each  other  and  the  smoke  grew  thicker  as 
they  shot  again  in  unison.  They  came  on  slowly,  pull 
ing  the  triggers  until  the  room  was  filled  with  the  black 
powder  fumes. 

.Then  Pete  Gabriel  stood  swaying  within  arm's 
length  of  Joe  Phy's  prostrate  form.  And  as  he  strug- 


BOOT-HILL  299 

gled  against  the  mortal  weakness  which  was  now  creep 
ing  through  his  lead-riddled  body  the  man  on  the  floor 
whispered, 

"I  cain't  get  up.  Get  down.  We  '11  finish  it  with 
knives/' 

"I  guess  we  Ve  both  of  us  got  enough,"  the  sheriff 
muttered,  and  staggered  out  through  the  door,  to  lie  all 
night  in  a  near-by  corral  and  live  for  two  years  after 
ward  with  a  bullet  through  his  kidneys. 

Joe  Phy  died  hard  on  the  saloon  floor.  Those  in  the 
room  gathered  about  him,  and  Johnny  Murphy  strove 
to  lift  his  head  that  they  might  give  him  a  sip  of  water. 
A  year  before  he  and  two  others  had  slain  Joe  Levy, 
a  faro-dealer  in  Tucson,  and  they  had  done  it  foully 
from  behind.  Since  that  time  men  had  avoided  him, 
speaking  to  him  only  when  it  was  absolutely  necessary, 
and  his  hair  had  turned  snow-white.  Joe  Phy  opened 
his  eyes  and  recognized  his  would-be  helper. 

" Don't  you  dare  lay  a  hand  on  me,"  he  cried,  "you 
murderer,"  and  struck  Murphy  full  in  the  face.  His 
hand  fell  limply  back.  The  breath  had  departed  from 
his  body  with  that  blow. 

The  long  procession  is  waning.  Now  those  are  coming 
whose  headboards  were  erected  in  the  early  eighties. 
A  company  of  swarthy  black-eyed  riders  in  the  flaring 
trousers  and  steep-crowned  sombreros  of  Mexico  jog 
along  elbow  to  elbow  with  hard-eyed  horsemen  from  the 
valleys  of  the  San  Simon  and  the  Animas.  Smuggler 
and  cow-thief,  there  is  a  story  in  their  passing  which 
centers  about  a  deep  gorge  near  the  place  where  the 
boundary  between  New  Mexico  and  Arizona  meets  the 
international  line.  That  story  goes  a  long  way  back. 


300          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

Down  in  the  southwestern  corner  of  the  Animas  valley 
the  Guadalupe  Caflon  trail  approached  the  gorge  from 
which  it  got  its  name.  In  the  days  when  the  American 
colonists  were  still  contented  with  Great  Britain's  rule 
it  was  a  main  thoroughfare  between  the  Pifios  Altos 
mines  and  old  Mexico.  Long  trains  of  pack-mules,  laden 
with  treasure  which  the  Spaniards  had  delved  from  the 
sun-baked  mountains  near  where  Silver  City  now  stands, 
traveled  this  route.  Apaches  and  bandits  made  many 
an  attack  on  them  in  the  canon. 

The  Pifios  Altos  mines  were  abandoned.  The  trail  fell 
into  disuse.  The  years  passed  by.  The  '49  rush  brought 
new  travelers  of  another  breed  who  beat  down  the  old 
track  again.  Passing  through  the  gorge  they  too  found 
the  Apaches  lurking  among  the  rocks  and  more  than 
one  old  argonaut  laid  down  his  eight-square  rifle  for 
the  last  time  within  the  shadow  of  those  arid  cliffs. 

Old  Man  Clanton  came  with  one  of  these  '49  outfits, 
a  typical  specimen  of  that  lean- jawed  leathern-faced 
breed  who  have  fought  Indians,  lynched  Mexicans,  and 
established  themselves  in  hundreds  of  dreary  outposts 
beyond  the  last  settlements.  He  went  on  to  California, 
failed  to  find  the  gold,  and  returned  some  time  during  the 
latter  seventies  to  the  upper  San  Pedro  valley.  Here 
he  * '  raised  his  family, ' '  as  the  old  expression  has  it,  and, 
his  sons  grew  up,  Finn,  Ike,  and  Billy.  Those  were 
wild  days,  and  the  two  last-named  boys  became  more 
proficient  with  rope,  running-iron,  and  forty-five  re 
volver  than  they  ever  did  with  their  school-books.  In 
time  they  were  known  as  rustlers  and  in  the  lawless 
town  of  Charleston  by  the  San  Pedro  River  they  fell 
in  with  C.urly  Bill.  When  the  outlaw  went  eastward 


BOOT-HILL  301 

into  the  valleys  of  the  San  Simon  and  the  Animas  the  two 
young  Clantons  went  with  him.  The  cow-thieves  of  the 
San  Simon  and  the  Animas  did  not  go  to  the  trouble 
of  altering  brands  or  "sleepering,"  as  their  successors 
have  in  later  years,  but  drove  entire  herds  and  sold 
them,  as  they  were,  to  shippers.  Occasionally  they  rode 
down  into  Sonora  to  raid  the  ranges  south  of  the  border. 
One  July  day  in  1881  a  number  of  them  embarked  on 
such  an  expedition  and  they  gathered  a  bunch  of  sev 
eral  hundred  longhorns.  They  brought  them  up  through 
Guadalupe  Canon  and  came  on  northward  to  the  Double 
Dobe  Ranch.  Here  they  left  the  cattle  with  a  man  to 
hold  them,  while  they  rode  over  to  Curly  Bill's  place, 
not  far  distant. 

But  the  Mexicans  had  been  suffering  from  this  sort 
of  depredations  until  patience  had  ceased  to  be  a  virtue 
and  a  band  of  thirty  dusky  vaqueros  were  following  the 
trail  of  those  stolen  longhorns.  On  the  afternoon  of 
July  26  the  man  who  was  riding  herd  caught  sight  of 
the  steep-crowned  sombreros  coining  out  through  the 
mirage  on  the  flats  to  the  south.  He  waited  only  long 
enough  to  satisfy  himself  as  to  the  nationality  of  the 
riders,  then  clapped  spurs  to  his  pony  and  raced  to 
Curly  Bill's  place. 

It  took  the  rustlers  some  time  to  saddle  up.  When 
they  arrived  at  the  Double  Dobe  they  found  nothing 
of  their  former  prizes  but  a  fresh  trail.  They  made  the 
best  speed  they  could,  but  the  Mexicans  were  ''shoving 
those  cattle  hard,"  as  the  old-timers  say.  They  had  a 
good  lead  and  they  held  it  clear  to  Guadalupe  Canon. 
The  running  fight  that  followed  lasted  half-way  through 
the  gorge.  The  men  from  Sonora  were  seasoned  hands 


302          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

at  Indian  warfare,  and  they  had  no  mind  to  give  up 
their  beef.  They  left  a  small  rear -guard,  who  fell  back 
slowly  from  rock  to  rock  while  their  companions  urged 
the  longhorns  to  a  run.  The  shouts  of  "Toro!  Toro! 
Vaca!  Vaca'M  mingled  with  the  crackling  of  the  rifles. 
And  when  the  rustlers  finally  routed  the  stubborn  de 
fenders  to  chase  the  herders  on  through  the  ravine  and 
reassemble  the  panic-stricken  stock,  they  took  back  three 
dead  men  across  their  saddles.  They  buried  the  bodies 
at  the  Cloverdale  ranch  and  so  started  a  lonely  little 
boot-hill  whose  headboards  showed  on  the  edge  of  the 
mesa  for  many  years. 

There  came  now  to  the  old  Guadalupe  Canon  trail  a 
new  traffic.  Mexican  smugglers  who  had  formerly  been 
crossing  the  boundary  at  the  southern  end  of  the  San 
Pedro  valley  shifted  their  route  hither  and  traveled 
northward  to  Silver  City.  They  were  hard  men,  ac 
customed  to  warring  with  the  Apaches,  bandits,  and 
border  officers.  They  banded  together  in  formidable, 
outfits  to  guard  the  dobie  dollars  which  loaded  down  the 
aparejos  during  the  northern  journey.  And  Curly 
Bill's  companions  saw  them  passing  on  more  than  one 
occasion :  a  scuffle  of  hoofs,  a  haze  of  dust,  through  which 
showed  the  swarthy  faces  of  the  outriders  under  the 
great  sombreros — and,  what  lingered  longest  in  the 
memories  of  these  hard-faced  men  of  the  Animas,  the 
pleasant  dull  chink  of  the  dobie  dollars  in  the  rawhide 
pack-sacks. 

In  Galeyville  the  rustlers  talked  the  matter  over.  It 
was  a  simple  problem:  go  and  get  the  money.  They 
went  one  day  and  made  their  camp  near  Guadalupe 
Canon.  They  sent  scouts  on  through  the  gorge  to  watch 


BOOT-HILL  303 

the  country  from  the  mesa  above  the  spot  where  John 
Slaughter's  ranch  buildings  now  stand.  One  hot  noon 
tide  the  scouts  came  riding  in. 

' '  There  's  a  big  outfit  coming.  Must  be  a  dozen  mules 
and  nigh  on  to  thirty  men."  The  outlaws  were  in  the 
saddle  before  those  who  brought  the  tidings  had  time 
to  breathe  their  horses. 

In  those  days  you  were  supposed  to  give  a  man  what 
the  old-timers  called  an  even  break  before  you  killed  him. 
The  supposition  was  lived  up  to  by  the  chivalrous  and 
ignored  by  many  who  gained  large  reputations.  But 
when  it  came  to  Mexicans  there  was  not  even  that  ideal  to 
attain;  they  were  not  rated  as  full-fledged  human 
beings ;  to  slay  one  meant  no  addition  to  the  notches  on 
one's  gun,  nor  did  one  feel  obliged  to  observe  the  rules 
of  fair  play.  You  simply  killed  your  greaser  in  the 
most  expeditious  manner  possible  and  then  forgot  about 
it.  The  rustlers  went  about  the  business  according  to 
this  custom.  Save  for  Curly  Bill  the  members  of  the 
party  left  their  horses  in  charge  of  a  man  around  a 
turn  of  the  gorge.  They  hid  themselves  behind  the 
rocks  on  the  steep  mountain-side  and  waited  while  their 
burly  leader  rode  slowly  to  meet  the  smugglers. 

The  train  was  traveling  after  the  Mexican  fashion, 
which  is  very  much  like  the  Spanish  California  manner 
of  driving  a  herd.  The  chief  of  the  outfit  rode  in  the 
lead  some  distance  before  the  first  pack-mule.  The 
laden  animals  followed  in  single  file.  Flanking  them 
on  each  side  were  the  armed  guards,  with  one  or  two 
closing  in  on  the  rear.  Thus  they  came,  winding  their 
way  among  the  stark  rocks  and  the  clumps  of  Spanish 
bayonet,  and  when  the  leader  caught  sight  of  Curly  Bill 


304          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

from  under  his  huge,  silver  decked  sombrero,  he  reined 
in  his  horse;  his  grip  tightened  on  the  rifle  which  he 
carried  across  his  saddle.  The  outriders  pulled  up; 
there  was  a  low  rattle  of  shifting  weapons  and  the  bell 
of  the  first  mule  stopped  tinkling  as  the  train  came  to  a 
stand. 

But  the  strange  rider  was  alone.  The  leader  raised 
his  arm  in  signal  and  the  straggling  procession  resumed 
its  advance.  The  solitary  American  rode  on  until  he 
was  alongside  their  head  man. 

"Buenos  dias,  Sefior,"  he  said  and  checked  his  pony. 
The  Mexican  answered.  The  pair  shook  hands.  When 
they  had  talked  for  some  moments,  Curly  Bill  turned 
and  rode  back  up  the  canon  beside  the  smuggler.  The 
pack-train  followed  and  the  men  on  the  flanks  eased 
their  rifles  back  into  the  sheaths.  They  traveled  until 
the  lead  mule  had  passed  the  last  hidden  rustler. 

Curly  Bill's  right  hand  swept  to  his  revolver  holster 
and  came  on  upward  clutching  the  weapon's  butt.  The 
movement  was  so  quick  that  before  those  who  were 
looking  at  him  really  grasped  its  meaning  the  hot  rocks 
were  bandying  echoes  of  the  report.  The  Mexican  was 
sliding  from  his  saddle,  quite  dead.  The  outlaw  was 
spurring  his  pony  up  the  mountain-side. 

Now  the  outriders  dragged  their  rifles  from  the 
sheaths  but  while  they  were  seeking  to  line  their  sights 
on  the  murderer  the  rustlers  opened  fire  on  them. 
Those  cow-thieves  of  the  Animas  were  good  shots;  the 
range  was  brief.  The  flat  explosions  of  the  Win 
chesters,  the  scuffling  of  hoofs,  the  voices  of  dark-skinned 
riders  calling  upon  their  saints  as  they  pitched  forward 
from  their  frenzied  horses,  dying ;  the  squealing  of  a  hit 


BOOT-HILL  305 

burro ;  these  things  the  arid  cliffs  heard  and  repeated  to 
one  another.  And  then  the  rat-tat-tat  of  hoofbeats  as 
the  surviving  smugglers  fled  westward. 

That  is  the  way  the!  rustlers  told  the  story  in  Galey- 
ville  amid  grim  laughter ;  and  the  voices  of  the  narrators 
were  raised  to  carry  above  the  staccato  pounding  of  the 
painos,  the  scuffling  of  boot  heels  on  the  dance-hall 
floors,  the  shrill  mirthless  outcries  of  rouge-bedizened 
women,  and  the  resonant  slapping  of  dobie  dollars  on 
the  unpainted  pine  bars.  Now  and  again  the  recitals 
were  interrupted  by  the  roaring  of  forty-five  revolvers 
as  the  more  fervid  celebrants  showed  their  expertness  at 
marksmanship  by  shooting  the  French  heels  from  the 
shoes  of  the  dance-hall  girls. 

John  Ringo,  the  king  of  the  outlaws,  got  wind  of  what 
was  going  on  and  rode  over  from  Tombstone,  silent  as 
usual,  and  with  that  saturninity  of  expression  which 
grew  darker  as  the  whisky  began  to  work  within  him. 
He  took  no  part  in  the  celebration  but  sat  through  one 
day  and  two  blazing  nights,  dumbly  sardonic,  at  a 
round  table.  Save  for  his  dark  countenance,  the  faces 
which  ringed  that  table  were  changing  constantly.  Men 
came  noisily,  sat  down  for  a  time,  and  departed  at  length 
in  chastened  silence  as  the  poker-game  which  he  had 
organized  went  on  and  on — until  a  large  share  of  those 
dobie  dollars  passed  unto  him.  Then,  with  the  sudden 
flare  of  recklessness  which  invariably  came  to  him  sooner 
or  later,  he  in  his  turn  flung  away  the  silver  over  the 
unpainted  bars.  So  the  incident  passed  and  was  for 
gotten — by  the  rustlers. 

The  Mexicans  did  not  forget. 

Old  Man  Clanton  started  with  a  Tombstone  butcher 


306          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

and  three  others  on  a  journey  for  the  Animas  valley  a 
few  weeks  later.  They  were  going  to  buy  beef  cattle 
and  they  took  the  Guadalupe  Canon  route.  One  night 
they  made  camp  near  the  middle  of  the  gorge.  And 
while  they  slept  a  dozen  swarthy  men,  who  wore  the 
steep-crowned  sombreros  and  the  trousers  with  leathern 
facings  which  were  a  part  of  every  Mexican  smug 
gler's  costume,  came  creeping  in  and  out  among  the 
boulders  like  the  Apaches  whose  ways  they  had  stud 
ied  in  years  of  border  warfare. 

They  had  waited  a  long  time  in  the  lofty  mountains 
south  of  the  boundary,  watching  the  malapi  flats  for  a 
party  of  Americans ;  and  at  last  these  had  come.  They 
had  dogged  their  trail  through  the  long  hot  afternoon, 
keeping  well  back  lest  they  should  be  discovered.  Now 
they  were  closing  in.  The  air  grew  cooler  and  the  hour 
of  dawn  approached.  They  slipped,  black  shadows  a 
little  deeper  than  the  night  which  enfolded  them.  The 
light  climbed  up  the  eastern  sky  and  leaked  down  be 
tween  the  cliffs;  the  cold  gray  dusk  which  comes  before 
the  dawn.  The  shadows  melted  slowly;  the  heavens  be 
gan  to  blush.  Down  here  a  man  could  line  the  notch  of 
his  hindsight  with  the  bead.  A  pebble  tinkled  in  the 
arid  watercourse.  One  of  the  sleepers  stirred  in  *his 
blankets.  He  caught  the  sound,  opened  his  eyes,  and 
saw  the  crown  of  a  sombrero  rising  behind  a  rock.  He 
leaped  from  his  bed  and  flung  himself  among  a  clump 
of  boulders  just  as  the  rifles  began  to  talk. 

Two  or  three  cow-boys  were  lounging  about  the 
Cloverdale  ranch-house  on  a  blazing  summer  afternoon 
when  a  queer  figure  came  into  sight  upon  the  palpitating 
plain.  The  spectacle  of  a  man  on  foot  was  so  uncommon 


BOOT-HILL  307 

in  those  days  that  they  had  a  hard  time  making  them 
selves  believe  that  this  form,  which  at  times  took  dis 
torted  shapes  in  the  wavering  overheated  air,  was  that  of 
a  human  being.  Then  they  set  forth  to  meet  him,  and 
they  brought  the  one  survivor  of  the  Canton  party  to  the 
ranch-house.  His  bare  feet  were  bleeding ;  he  was  half- 
clad  ;  and  his  tongue  was  swollen  with  thirst.  They  got 
his  story  and  they  rode  to  Guadalupe  Canon  where  they 
found  the  bodies  of  his  companions.  They  buried  them 
on  the  little  boot-hill  overlooking  the  ranch  buildings. 

But  the  episode  was  not  yet  finished. 

Time  went  by.  Billy  Clanton  and  the  two  MacLow- 
ery  boys,  who  are  said  to  have  been  parties  to  the  dobie 
dollar  holdup,  died  one  autumn  morning  fighting  it  out 
against  the  Earp  faction  in  Tombstone's  street.  Curly 
Bill's  fate  remains  something  of  a  mystery,  but  one 
story  has  it  that  Wyatt  Earp  killed  him  near  Globe  two 
years  or  so  later.  John  Ringo  killed  himself  up  in  the 
San  Simon,  delirious  from  thirst.  Rattlesnake  Bill,  who 
helped  to  spend  the  Mexican  silver,  was  shot  down  by  a 
fellow-rustler  in  Galeyville.  Jake  Gauz,  another  of  the 
participants,  was  lynched  for  horse-stealing  not  far 
from  the  head  of  Turkey  Creek  Canon. 

So  they  went  one  after  the  other,  and  it  is  possible  that 
every  man  who  was  present  at  the  massacre  of  the  Mexi 
cans  died  with  his  boots  on. 

"  Those  who  take  up  the  sword  shall  perish  by  the 
sword."  The  words  come  from  one  who  rides  near  the 
grim  procession's  end;  a  slim  young  fellow,  beardless, 
his  hair  hanging  to  his  shoulders.  It  is  the  boy  whom 
men  called  Billy  the  Kid.  He  quoted  the  passage  to  Pat 


308          WHEN  THE  WEST  WAS  YOUNG 

Garret  when  the  Lincoln  County  sheriff  and  his  posse 
were  taking  him  and  his  captured  companions  to 
Santa  Fe. 

1  'Those  who  take  up  the  sword  shall  perish  by  the 
sword."  Only  a  few  nights  before  he  spoke,  Tom 
0  'Phalliard,  one  of  the  last  of  his  band,  had  fallen  from 
his  horse  with  a  bullet  through  his  chest  in  Fort  Sumner 
to  die,  cursing  the  tall  silent  sheriff,  in  the  room  where 
the  posse  had  carried  him.  Two  mornings  afterward  at 
the  Arroyo  Tivan,  Charley  Bowdre  had  staggered  into 
the  stone  house  where  the  outlaws  were  hiding,  wounded 
unto  death  by  the  rifles  of  these  same  pursuers. 

"  Charley,  you  're  done  for.  Go  out  and  see  if  you 
can't  get  one  of  them,"  Billy  the  Kid  had  told  the  dy 
ing  man,  and  through  the  crack  of  the  door  had  watched 
him  stumbling  over  the  frozen  snow  toward  the  posse, 
while  his  numbed  fingers  fumbled  with  his  revolver  butt 
in  a  final  access  of  vain  effort. 

And  now  this  youth,  the  deadliest  of  the  Southwestern 
outlaws,  spoke  from  the  Scriptures  to  Pat  Garret;  per 
haps  it  was  all  of  his  Bible  that  he  knew.  He  said  it  in 
December.  In  July  Garret  shot  him  in  Pete  Maxwell's 
room  at  Fort  Sumner.  The  years  went  by.  One  day 
the  former  sheriff  fell  in  the  sand  hills  west  of  Tula- 
rosa  with  an  assassin's  bullet  in  his  back. 

Thus,  throughout  the  Old  West:  bad  man  and  fron 
tier  officer,  Indian  fighter,  cow-boy,  stage-driver,  trooper, 
and  faro-dealer,  they  lived  their  lives  in  accordance  with 
bold  customs  which  bridged  the  gap  between  savagery 
and  modern  civilization.  In  a  strange  land  they  did  the 
best  they  could;  and,  bad  or  good,  they  came  to  their 


BOOT-HILL  309 

ends  with  a  fine  unflinching  disregard  for  the  supreme 
adventure. 

To-day  fat  prairie  corn-fields  stand  tasseled  in  the 
sunlight,  the  smoke  of  lusty  young  cities  rises  black 
against  the  sky;  while  automobiles  speed  upon  con 
crete  highways  over  the  forgotten  graveyards  where 
their  bones  lie. 


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